Shattered REWRITTEN
by lightinside
Summary: After losing her brother in Afghanistan, Katherine Watson is lost and alone. When Sherlock Holmes contacts her, she chooses to become his 'replacement' flat mate, as neither of them can stand to be alone. But as someone who has never before taken this kind of a risk, can she handle it? Or will they both lose more than they bargained for? {REVISED AND REWRITTEN}
1. Chapter 1

_"Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up."_

 _\- louise erdrich_

* * *

 **01 | the funeral**

When someone dies, how do you keep living? This was the question I kept asking myself. How could the world keep spinning when all I wanted it to do was stop? I was starting to think that everything went on to spite me. People kept coming, kept bringing food, kept repeating themselves. "I'm so sorry," they would say. "I know this must be terrible for you."

I would nod, thank them for their acknowledgement of my grief. What else could I do? What could I say? How could they really understand what I was going through? _How could this be happening to me?_

Lost in thought, I stared at the tombstone in front of me. The one that bore his name in large, white lettering. _Son, brother and friend_ , it read. I had the passing thought that those words were the understatement of the year. Was this all we got in death? A life summed up in less than a sentence?

"Katherine?"

I glanced up, stolen from my musings without any show of surprise. People were still milling about, mostly near my parents. They'd given up on me about thirty minutes before, when I had simply stopped responding when someone asked me a question. I didn't mean to be rude. I just suddenly couldn't seem to remember how to make an effort. I felt empty, like the person I had been a week before had abruptly packed her bags and vacated my body. And I didn't know if she was ever coming back.

The person who had called my name was not familiar to me at all. Dressed all in black, customary and respectful, her aged face was full of a grief that mirrored my own. All at once, looking at her without ever saying a word, I felt awake. I wanted to ask who she was, why she was here. But my mouth wouldn't seem to open. She saw this and reached out, shocking me again by taking my hand in both of hers.

"You don't know me." She said gently, as if she knew I might break. As if she could really see. "But I knew John. I came to pay my respects. I didn't know if I would be intruding, but I would have so regretted not coming to say goodbye."

I blinked. "You aren't intruding." I swore, and I meant it. I sounded like I meant it. "How did you... know John?" Saying his name, even though everyone had been doing so all morning, felt like a slap in the face. It felt wrong to have a name and no one to put it with.

"Oh, dear." She said with a laugh that didn't quite sound full. "I'm his... I was his landlady for a while."

My mouth fell open unceremoniously as I realized who she was. "You're Mrs. Hudson? My brother... well, I heard about you." I said, squeezing her hand. It was suddenly like I had always known her. I knew enough about her and his flatmate from the blog John had kept online. He hadn't called much when he lived on Baker Street, but then again he had been busy. And so had I and so was everyone else we knew. I hadn't had enough time with him and I realized it too late.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to brighten. "I was sure you wouldn't know me from Eve, dear. But I'm glad to be wrong. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"

I chewed my bottom lip for a long moment, thinking. What could she do for me? My automatic response was 'no, thank you, but I'm fine'. That was what I had been saying all morning to everyone who had asked me the very same question. Somehow, this was different. She had known John and known him well. And I was sure that all of his things were still in the flat where he lived before he'd gone back to Afghanistan. He wouldn't have taken much, if anything, with him at all. It struck me that I could really ask something of her, really benefit. It wasn't just superficial. This would _mean_ something.

"If it isn't much bother, would you mind if I stopped by later?" I asked. My voice had lost its life again, no matter how much I had tried to revive it for her. Mrs. Hudson was kind, just like John had said to me once. She went out of her way to come here and offer me what no one else had been able to offer even if she didn't know it yet.

"It's never a bother at all." She promised firmly. "You have an open invitation to visit anytime you like, Katherine."

"Thank you." I said, nodding to myself. "It's just that... I know his things must still be there. If his flatmate didn't...?"

Mrs. Hudson was instantly aghast and I worried for half a second that I had managed to offhandedly offend her. "Oh, no! Sherlock would never throw John's things out. I would never have allowed it even if he had thought of it for a moment. If you want to take some of them home, please do. Or leave them. It's up to you, dear."

"I'm not sure yet." I said, lost in thought. Did I have a right to take his things away? Was it too soon? I wondered about his flatmate. Was he grieving at all? It didn't feel right to me, to take John's things from one of the last places he had been, the place he called home. But I could visit and... what? I wondered suddenly what good that would do me. All of his old things were just that. Things. It wouldn't bring him back, no matter how long I stood around and looked at them. Would it bring me any peace at all? Or would it just make everything worse?

"Think it over." Mrs. Hudson murmured, patting my hand again. "Like I said, the door is open for you anytime. I'm so sorry, Katherine. I loved John like a son." And before I could react, her hands released mine and she turned to leave, following the dwindling crowd back toward their cars.

I stared after her, watching in peculiar envy as she escaped this place. I wanted to run away from it all, too. I wanted to be able to walk back to the car and never look back again. I wished that it wasn't a part of _my_ heart buried here.

I don't know how long I stood there. Looking back and forth between the path that led to the exit and the grave. I couldn't remember exactly when it was that people had started to leave. I only knew that the sun was bright now and very high in the sky, even if it was hidden by the clouds that were beginning to roll in. It was fitting, I thought, that it would rain. That's what it always did in the movies at funerals. I didn't necessarily know if that was realistic, but it seemed right that the world would reflect your grief back at you even as it kept spinning in spite of it.

Thoughts passed in and out of my head, swirling and fading and then being brought back to life again in an instant when a fresh wave of regret would hit. I wondered if somehow I had known. When John had gone a second time back into war, had I known somewhere deep down that he would never make it home? Could I have said something to make him change his mind?

Would he still be alive if I had?

Something tore at the edges of a hole that had opened up where my heart had been. It burned like fire, causing me to wince as I thought of all the possibilities that would never be. It was foolish to stand there, blaming for myself for something that was out of my control. I knew that. But who else was there to punish? Who else was going to take the blame? Dying is a side effect of living. It has to happen sometime. And most of the time, it can't be helped. This couldn't have been helped, I told myself. Yet, the punishing went on and the flame kept burning under my ribs like it had always been there and would never stop.

I took one last look at the tombstone. _John Watson, son, brother and friend._

Somehow, I found the strength to turn my back on him. I walked through the cemetery, following the path that everyone else had followed to go back to their cars. I was escaping now, though not entirely. The car that waited for me at the end of the path rumbled quietly as the driver worked patiently at a crossword behind the wheel while I stood with my hand on the door in hesitation.

I didn't look back. But I closed my eyes for ten seconds, twelve, and took a deep breath. And then I climbed inside.

Back in my childhood home, I sat in my old room and waited patiently to hear something other than daytime television. I wondered if my patience would be rewarded, if my parents would finally speak to each other instead of withdrawing further into themselves.

I stared at my ceiling, still in my dress from the funeral, picking absently at the quilt that lay underneath me. In the middle of thinking that there was too much pink in this room, I began wondering about leaving. But could I manage to leave without a lecture? Even if they weren't speaking to each other, my mother insisted that solidarity was key. Families stuck together in a crisis, she said. Therefore, if no one was speaking, we would all not speak _together_. I decided that it wasn't worth the effort and draped an arm over my eyes. The sunlight, though dimming now, was smothered completely from view and I found that in the dark and in the silence, I could finally breathe.

Not long after that, a chime interrupted what little peace I had managed to find and sent me crashing back into reality. I sighed softly and reached blindly for my cell, checking the notifications with disinterest. The number was unknown. I looked the message over anyway, sure that it was someone who probably knew my parents and wanted to pass on their regrets. To my surprise, this was not the case.

 **Katherine Watson? - SH**

I stared at the screen, confused and unsure. SH? Initials, it looked like. Who in the world signed their texts? No one I knew, that was certain. Maybe it was one of my dad's friends. Or someone who didn't really text much in general. The longer I stared, the more disinclined I felt to respond. I shrugged to myself and began to put down my cell, but it chimed again.

 **I'm waiting. - SH**

Indignation rose in my chest, flaring like the fire that kept licking at the hole there. My mouth had fallen open, but I didn't bother closing it as I typed my response.

 **And just who exactly do you think you are?**

I sat there, fuming, waiting. My irritation was only growing as the minutes passed. How dare they demand a response from me after less than a minute and then keep me waiting. Did they have any sense of courtesy at all? Were they always this _rude_?

And then, the chime came again.

 **Sherlock Holmes. Last I checked. - SH**

I started, trying to place the name. I'd just heard it hadn't I? Sherlock Holmes. It clicked, finally. The blog, Mrs. Hudson saying something about Sherlock when I had mentioned John's flatmate. So this was the elusive Sherlock Holmes. I disliked him already, even though John had spoken of him so highly. Could this really have been his first impression on my brother? Surely not. John was even less likely to put up with this than I was. But somehow, Sherlock had become synonymous with the term 'my best mate' in the few conversations that John and I managed to have in between our busy schedules.

Against my better judgment, I responded.

 **What do you want?**

It was only as I pressed send and watched the message fly away that I realized how cold I sounded. But that didn't stop Sherlock from responding only seconds later.

 **If convenient, come to Baker Street. -SH**

I was mulling this over, twisting one of the rings on my fingers absently, when he texted again.

 **If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH**

Now what? He wanted me to come to Baker Street. Had Mrs. Hudson spoken to him already? It was possible that she had convinced him to invite me, but this was hardly a traditional invitation. It seemed more like a command, if that. I sighed, worried that I really was losing my mind as I typed back.

 **Address?**

Several seconds passed. I wondered if he hadn't changed his mind. I wondered if that would have given me some relief, or if my stomach would have stayed as knotted as it was presently. What would I find if I went to see Sherlock? Would he be this rude in person? My guess was that yes, he would be. I wondered if I could handle that today of all days.

 **221 B. Upper flat. - SH**

Upstairs, then. Mrs. Hudson must have lived below them. I wondered if I would run into her again as I gathered my bag and my jacket, not bothering to change out of my dress. It didn't really matter what I wore, I supposed. It was no secret that there had been a funeral today. I did my best to sneak quietly down the hall toward the front door, carrying my shoes and phone in my hand, but I stopped when I heard the conversation that was floating out of the kitchen. The television, I realized, hadn't been on because someone was really watching it. It was on because there was something going on that I wasn't meant to hear.

"I don't know how to do this." My mum was saying. "I don't know how to... I don't... James, I don't know how to look at you. I can't breathe."

"We can get through this, Caroline. I know..." There was a sigh, shifting as my father tried to find the words to say. "I can't breathe either. I don't know how to do this _either_. Are you at least willing to figure it out together?"

"All I know is that I can't distance myself from this because you're connected to it, to him. I can't breathe because of this house and everything in it. Everything is my _son_." Her voice broke in such a way that made the hole in my chest twist sickeningly. "I need to... I don't know what I need."

There was a long pause. "Maybe you should go see your sister in France. Maybe the time... but it won't help, really. Will it?"

"I don't know that anything will."

I stopped listening. I rushed for the door, feeling suddenly like the ground might be yanked out from under my feet without a moment's notice. Or had it been already? Was I just going to be in this constant state of free-fall forever?

I found myself on the street and in a taxi before I could really catch my breath. The drive was a blur of buildings and sky and time, all of which I didn't pay any attention to at all. All I knew was that it had started to rain by the time I reached my destination, and I was relieved to finally have the sky reflect the storm that was raging within. I stood on the stoop, staring at the lettering on the door - 221 B.

I didn't really care that I was starting to get wet, I was in no rush to go inside even though I'd noticed the curtains in the upstairs windows fluttering in a telltale sign of someone's impatience. The only rush I'd been in was to get away from the conversation that hinted at more than I had wanted to know. I braced myself and knocked on the door in a desperate attempt to silence my thoughts.

The door opened and I was ushered inside by Mrs. Hudson, fussing over my damp coat and hair as if I might come down with a cold. I almost wished I would, it would give me an excuse to stay in bed for a few days. Finally, when she had satisfied herself by wrapping a blanket around my damp shoulders, she sighed. "I'm glad you came, Katherine. I wasn't sure that you would to tell you the truth."

"I wasn't sure either." I said. "But I was summoned. So, I figured that there was no harm in coming." I added, halfhearted annoyance laced through my words.

Mrs. Hudson stared at me blankly before the answer came to her. "Oh, that man." She huffed. "Really, he is lovely when you get to know him. In his own way. He's very... he's his own person."

 _That charming?_ I wanted to ask, but I couldn't bring myself to use sarcasm on Mrs. Hudson. It just didn't seem right. After a moment, nodding in acknowledgement of her words, I was glad I hadn't. It was good to have a little control of my life, even if it was just in the things that I said. It made me feel more solid, less likely to float away.

"Truthfully, Katherine, he's been very lost without John around. And now..." She trailed off, shaking her head to stop herself from saying more than I needed to hear. "Well, it's good that you came. Maybe it will do you both a little good."

I doubted it, but I didn't say so.

"Is Sherlock here?"

"Upstairs." She answered, glancing toward his door out of habit. "Should I introduce you or would you rather go on your own?"

The stairs didn't seem ominous to me, only the closed door at the top that hinted at the unknown. I ignored my unsettled stomach and shook my head. "I can go alone. You don't have to go to all that trouble." Before she could protest, I handed her the blanket that she'd given me and started up toward the door and whatever it was that waited behind it.

I didn't give myself time to wonder if I had made a mistake. I knocked and waited before a voice, baritone and completely different than what I had imagined, answered and told me to come in.

He didn't have to tell me twice.


	2. Chapter 2

**02.**

Upon opening the door, I felt that I had been wholly unprepared for what I would find inside. John had always been a very meticulous person, neat and by the book. When he had lived alone, everything was always just so, in its assigned place.

This was nothing like the order I was so accustomed to. Piles upon piles of books were stacked, crammed in corners and leaning along the walls and looking dangerously close to toppling off of the coffee tables. The desk that stood near the windows was overflowing with papers, folders, anything I could think of. It looked like some of it might even be sheet music. After all, there was enough of that crumpled in the floor all around the flat. It looked like it had been discarded out of frustration, as if Sherlock had been writing it and couldn't seem to get his thoughts together.

Neither could I. I understood that very well. I stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind me, eyes drifting immediately to the left to take in the kitchen. The dining table held more papers, microscopes, and abandoned dishes that looked like they were beginning to gather dust from disuse. Didn't he eat? Maybe Sherlock _was_ a takeout sort of person, but I didn't see any empty cartons lying about anywhere. The counters were lined with beakers, like the sort I'd used in high school in the science lab, and more books. I scanned the covers quickly, realizing that there was no rhyme or reason to the genres he had there. Volumes upon volumes, fiction and non-fiction, biographies and manuscripts. I managed to tear my gaze from the mesmerizing train wreck that seemed to surround me on all sides and search the room for the person that had called me there.

In the living room, sitting across from a very desolate looking plaid armchair, a strikingly lean figure with curly hair of the darkest brown sat plucking at a violin with long, bored fingers. It wasn't until he looked up that I saw how angular his face really was. His dark eyes, sweeping over me with almost blatant disinterest, somehow made it clear that he missed nothing. I saw at once that he was both intelligent and frighteningly _present_ for someone that had seemed to me to be a million miles away at first glance.

"Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, though I knew for certain that this had to be him. "You contacted me earlier. I'm -"

"I know who you are." He said, tone flat and biting. " _Obviously_. You look like you've been hit by a bus, who else could you be?"

"Excuse me?" I sounded too breathless to pretend that his words had no effect on me. Who was he to sit there and study me? He didn't know anything. He didn't know me. How could he be so arrogant? "You asked me to come here, if you _remember_. I didn't have to. In fact, now that I _am_ here, I have no idea why."

"Yet, here you are. The facts are just so." He said, lowering his eyes back to his violin. His fingers still plucked at the strings, but the movement was lazy now. Second nature. "At a stranger's request, you got in a cab on a moment's notice and came all the way across the city without knowing my reasons or even your own."

I scoffed, but not at him. It was aimed at myself. "When you put it like that, it seems rather ridiculous."

"Doesn't it?" Sherlock phrased this like a question, but somehow gave me no room to respond to it. I wondered how he could manage that. I wished that I could learn how. "Tell me something, Katherine."

"I'll try." I replied, no longer staring at him. My eyes had instead wandered back to the plaid chair. I wondered why it seemed untouched, like no one had sat in it for months, when everything else seemed so used.

"What is it that you thrive on?" He asked, _really_ asked this time. "Your brother seemed to have a particular interest in anything dangerous. You, however, seem more reserved. Or perhaps you only strike me that way right now because you look half-drowned. It does distract from the bigger picture."

My mouth fell open again. I had never been talked to this way in my entire life. In one way, a very small one, it was refreshing to have someone so far removed from the rules of everyday society that they said exactly what was passing through their mind in the moment. In every other way, it was absolutely maddening. "You're very rude, has anyone ever told you that before?"

Something played at the corners of his mouth, like the thought of a former memory that I had called to mind. "Once or twice." He said, but then there was nothing.

Any trace of familiarity that had been etched on his face a moment ago was wiped clean. This was his defense, I realized. He wasn't unfeeling. He just preferred to come across that way. If you alienate people before they have a chance to get to know you, no questions are asked. You don't have to confess anything much at all. I considered doing that at times. I had done it today at the funeral by clamming up instead of accepting more apologies. But to keep it up constantly? I couldn't imagine the kind of energy that took.

I hesitated, wondering if I should simply cut to the chase and ask about collecting some of John's things. But I was intrigued by Sherlock Holmes. And people hardly ever caught me off-guard enough to intrigue me. There was also the fact that he was a connection to John that could walk and talk rather than sit in inanimate silence. Would that be using him? I worried that it would be considered such, to only crave his company because of John. Sherlock couldn't fill the hole in my chest. Nothing could. So, what was the point of all of this? Despite all of my own questions, I found myself answering his.

"You want to know what I thrive on. And right now, I don't _thrive_ on anything. I'm just getting by. So, I guess... ask me again when I know." I paused, watching his face though he gave me almost nothing in the way of a telling reaction. "Is that a good enough answer for you?"

"For now." He said.

"I do have to ask." I said, looking back again at the plaid chair. Something about it was truly bothering me and I couldn't figure out what. "What exactly _were_ your reasons in asking me here?" I watched his brow furrow, his fingers becoming still for the first time since I had entered the flat.

"Curiosity." He answered, looking me right in the eye. It was all I could do not to look away, or at the very least hide my face. I wasn't used to this, to having someone be so observant. It was beginning to make me feel truly unsettled. "I needed to see something for myself."

"And what was that?"

"No." Sherlock cut me off with a sharp shake of his head. "My turn. Why did you come here?"

"Before you contacted me, I saw Mrs. Hudson at the funeral. She told me that I could come by for some of John's things, but I wasn't really sure about it. You made up my mind." I surprised myself by answering honestly and without a sharp edge to my voice. Usually, when someone demanded something out of me, I was a little less willing to cooperate. Yet, he'd gotten the truth out of me in less than thirty seconds.

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. His eyes drifted down to the floor, away from my face, and he went back to plucking the strings of his violin. The movement was gentle, but I wondered how they didn't snap under the strain of constant use. "You want his things." Again, it wasn't a question.

"I don't know." I said. "I thought I did, but now I'm not so sure." I looked again at the chair, this time taking several steps forward to get a better view. I realized suddenly, catching sight of a silver laptop sitting serenely on the other side of it, why the chair was so untouched. It had been John's seat. I saw it now. The patient files sitting neatly on the floor next to it, the laptop, like John would be coming back any second now. As if he was gone out to the shop instead of lying six feet under. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. The fire was back, burning the hole in my chest with greater intensity than it had all day.

Not only had Sherlock not thrown John's things out, he'd left them exactly the way they were. I felt as if I were standing in a mausoleum. I had to get out, to get away.

"The bin is in the kitchen." He said suddenly, bringing me somewhat out of my downward spiral.

"What?" I breathed, crossing my arms tightly over my chest, securing my ribs so that they wouldn't shatter amidst the turmoil that made the hole in my chest that much more alive. I had to do something to keep myself from breaking apart in Sherlock's living room.

"You look like you might vomit. The bin is in the kitchen." He repeated each syllable sharp and precise as if he were speaking to someone who couldn't quite grasp what he was saying. As if I was a child. I clenched my jaw and closed my eyes, backing away from the chair like it was a wild animal, ready to attack at any given moment.

"I'm fine." I said through gritted teeth. "I think this was a mistake." I looked back toward the door, but it seemed farther away than before. Like I was looking at it through a tunnel. I didn't make a move for it, afraid that I might lose it completely if I did. "I'm sorry that I wasted your time."

Sherlock stared at me for a moment that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Did he find me strange? Maybe I looked like I was going crazy. I certainly felt like I was, I wouldn't be surprised if it was written all over my face. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak. "Are you going to move?" He asked.

"Sorry?"

"When people apologize for wasting someone's time, usually that precedes their leaving so as not to waste any more." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as if the answer should have been clear to me. I realized that I'd done nothing but ask stupid questions since I walked through his door. At least, that was how he acted. "Are you staying or going, Katherine?"

"Going. I think." I said, staring at the door desperately. "Thank you. Or not, actually, you really haven't done much at all other than talk down to me. And I didn't have to come all the way across town for that." And suddenly, my feet could move again. I raced for the door, not bothering to look back at him once before I closed it behind me.

I nearly tripped twice on the stairs, thinking only of John's haunting presence in the flat up the stairs and how badly I needed to get away from it. A name without a person to put to it wasn't nearly as frightening, I decided, as seeing everything that was once theirs and realizing that it now belonged to no one at all. Mrs. Hudson stopped me just before I could open the front door and escape out into the rain.

"Katherine? What's wrong?" She asked, eyes wide. "Was he rude to you?"

"I just have to get out of here." I said, grabbing for my damp coat that hung to my left on an ancient rack. There were at least seven other coats there, I didn't see how it stayed standing under the weight of them all. My frenzy calmed just enough that I could think for a moment, realize that I had to say more to Mrs. Hudson before I left. Out of courtesy for her, if nothing else. _She_ wasn't the one who treated me like a child. "It was too soon, I think."

Her face was instantly apologetic. "Oh, please stay. I'm so sorry. You can sit with me, if you'd like? I can put on some tea. It's so dreadful outside, I would hate for you to go back out in it."

"No, that's alright." I said, trying my best to smile at her. It was probably closer to a grimace than anything else. "Thank you so much for the offer. If I can, maybe I can come back soon and take you up on it?"

Mrs. Hudson seemed torn between insisting that I stay and letting me go. She was trying to decide which was best; I could see the indecision written all over her. She sighed, finally and nodded. "Of course, dear. The door is always open to you. Please, be careful outside." She reached around me and picked up a red umbrella, handing it to me without question. "Take this so you don't catch a cold."

I took it. I didn't want to argue with her. I thanked her again and stepped out onto the front stoop, opening the umbrella while she watched before taking off down the street. I needed to walk to clear my head, not get back into a cab. But even walking, my mind still drifted.

 _"I don't know that anything will_." My mother's voice floated around inside my mind, lingering as I thought of the conversation I had overheard before coming to Baker Street. Were they going to get through this? Was I? Right now, it didn't seem likely. I couldn't imagine the pain ever leaving me enough to be able to step out and away from it. I couldn't imagine things seeming right again without my family being intact.

John was gone. And it seemed that my parents were going their separate ways. Or maybe they just weren't thinking straight. I reasoned with myself, remembering that my mother hadn't slept in days. Neither of them had. It was the grief. It had to be. But what if it wasn't? What if they'd been dealing with things that I didn't know about? I didn't pretend to know everything about my parents. No one does, really, no matter how old they get. I was okay with that, I didn't feel that I needed to know everything.

But I hoped that things weren't really as bad as they were looking to me at that moment. When the sun finally set, I decided it was time to go back. In the cab, I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was home. I realized with a rush of embarrassment that I had fallen asleep and I hurriedly paid the driver before stumbling out onto the street.

The rain had stopped, I realized, and sitting on the stoop, illuminated by the closest street lamp, was my dad. His glasses were off, in his lap, and his head was in his hands. He looked drained in every way possible. I didn't want to bother him, but I knew that I had no way of going inside unless I asked him to budge over and let me pass. Instead of doing that, I sat down next to him.

"These steps are really wet, Dad." I murmured. "Are you not cold?"

"I didn't really notice, KW." He said, sighing. I watched him reach for his glasses and place them back on his face so that he could really see my face. "You look like you got caught in the rain. Are _you_ not cold?"

I shrugged. "I'm fine." I said. "Is mum inside?"

"She went to sleep." He told me, voice hushed as if he might wake her. Maybe it was just because he was tired himself. It seemed like it took effort to even answer me when I said something to him. "It isn't very late, I know. But it was a long day."

"A very long day." I agreed. After a moment, I leaned into his shoulder. "Are you going to be alright out here? You won't let anyone snatch you away, will you?"

Something resembling a laugh escaped him, but it was tired just like everything else about him. "No snatching. I promise."

"I'll leave you to it, then." I said, standing to go. "Goodnight, Dad."

"Katherine?" He reached up and took one of my hands. "I love you, you know."

I smiled and it was a little easier this time than it had been before. "I know. I love you, too." I watched as he nodded, assuring himself that he'd done his job and let go of my hand. His eyes were empty again by the time he'd turned back to look at the street. I bit my lip and turned to go inside, leaving him there even though I didn't want to.

Inside the house, it was empty and quiet, the kind of quiet that seemed to echo and bounce off the walls. I went upstairs, tiptoeing past my mum's room even though I was sure she wasn't really asleep, and went straight to my room. I sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at my suitcase that sat haphazardly in the corner. I wondered if I should leave my parents here alone so soon. I hated being here as much as my mum did, because she really was right. John was everything in this house. He was in pictures, in memories waiting to jump out at me every time I went around a corner.

If I'd thought Sherlock's flat was a mausoleum, what did that make this house? Was it worse? Lost in thought, I changed out of my funeral dress and hung my wet coat over the chair that sat near my bed. I went about my usual routine and proceeded to collapse into bed with a sigh. It was only then that I checked my phone. And I found that I had a message.

 **Would an apology help? - SH**

I sighed, thumbs hovering over the screen as I tried to decide whether or not I should answer. I didn't want to go to bed angry. I was too tired for that.

 **Do you have one to offer?**

I hardly had time to cut my light out before an answer came back to me.

 **Simply asking if it would help. - SH**

With a roll of my eyes, I clicked the screen and watched it fade to black before I shoved my cell under the pillow next to me. He could wonder about it until the morning, it might do him some good. But then I had the thought that Sherlock might keep texting until I decided to answer. If that were the case, I would have just that much more to answer when I woke up in the morning. Muttering to myself, I dragged my phone back out and opened the messages again.

 **Ask again tomorrow.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Hi everyone! So, just a little heads up - I have changed the name of Dana's brother. Instead of Jon, he is now Charlie. I'm trying to go back through and really restructure this story so that things flow a little better than before, so there are some differences in every chapter. I won't be able to name them all, but if I make changes to a character that are specific and that could be confusing when read, I'll do my best to let you know ahead of time.**_

 _ **Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for your reviews! I was so happy to see some response to the last chapter, it really makes my week to read your reviews. I hope to hear from you again this week and, as always, you guys are free to e-mail me at any time.**_

 _ **I hope you all enjoy chapter 3 and have a great and SAFE spring break!**_

 _ **\- lightinside**_

* * *

 **03.**

The next morning came a bit too soon for my liking. I could hear rain again, pounding down on the roof and pavement outside so angrily that I couldn't begin to guess when it had begun or when it might stop. No one in the whole house was stirring. I kept waiting for my dad to start moving about, to go downstairs to watch the news like he did every morning. My ears strained, listening for my mum's voice, telling him to cut the television down while she made coffee.

But there was nothing, not even the birds chirping outside. If the downpour ever stopped, I suspected that might change. For now, however, the silence was just that. Flat and empty. I closed my eyes against the gray light that filtered in from outside and rolled over to go back to sleep. I would have managed it, had someone not started knocking on the front door. I sat up, listening again, but no one moved to answer it. The knocking came again, a little louder this time as if whoever it was thought we hadn't heard.

I sighed and dragged myself out of bed, too weary to bother worrying about what I looked like, and down the stairs. When I opened the door, I felt my mouth drop to the floor.

" _Dana_?"

Dana Kendall, my best friend of many long years, stared back at me sheepishly and held up a suitcase in her left hand and a bottle of wine in her right. "I came in peace. I didn't bring a casserole."

I remembered now. Dana's mother had been at the funeral. The longer I stood there thinking about it, the more I thought she must have spoken to me. But I couldn't remember if I'd said anything back. I blinked, closed my mouth, and stepped back and away from the door to let her in.

"Kat, I'm so sorry." She murmured as we drifted into the kitchen. I noticed that there was definitely no coffee made and wondered if I shouldn't check on my parents soon. "There were storms and they kept delaying my flight. I didn't get here until just a few hours ago."

I shrugged. "You're here now." I looked at the wine, trying to smile. "At least it isn't another casserole."

Dana laughed. "I figured if I showed up with one, you would have every right to leave me out on the street." She looked around, noticing the silence for the first time. "Is anyone home?"

"I thought so." I said, running a hand over my weary face. "But there's no coffee and I haven't heard anyone for hours. They might just be in hiding. They could have gone out before I woke up, I'm not sure."

Dana, always at home in my house, started rummaging through the fridge for something to eat. There was no shortage of food, which I was sure of. It seemed to be the thing most universally thought to cure a broken heart, or at the very least help it along toward mending. I hadn't touched a single plate of food yet. Dana, however, had her arms full when she emerged.

"Sorry." She said. "I'm starving. I haven't eaten since Seattle." She cut herself a piece of lasagna and put it in the microwave, watching it impatiently as it warmed. "You know, that place is really beautiful. It rains as much there as it does here. It made me feel like I was home."

"California isn't making you all warm and fuzzy like it used to?" I asked, dragging myself up so that I perched on the counter. The microwave seemed too loud to me now, after having spent my morning in silence. I winced as the beeping began, signaling to Dana that her food was ready. Before it had reached the third, she yanked the door open and dragged the food out. I made a face. I knew it wasn't warmed all the way through, but she didn't seem to care.

"It's warm." She said between bites of semi-cold lasagna. "Just... you know me, Kat. I never stick around in one place for too long. I'm getting restless there. I feel like I've done everything with my job that I can and I really would like to go somewhere that I can advance."

Dana was a lawyer, so it confused me that she thought she had reached the top of the corporate ladder. Unless... "You didn't make partner." I said. I surprised myself in realizing that I sounded a lot like Sherlock, but quickly shoved the thought away. I didn't want to ruin my morning with thoughts of him.

Dana sighed, dropping her fork dejectedly onto the now empty plate. "No. I had some issues lately here. Charlie came to 'visit' a few months back. He said he was quitting school and moving in with me and I admit, I missed a few important meetings while I was dragging him back here by his ear."

I started. "Quitting school?"

"He wants to move out. Away from my mum. You know how she gets, Katherine, she's absolutely insufferable. Especially when she's drinking. Charlie had enough and I told him that I understood and that he could come and live with me when he had a diploma. He didn't like that very much." She admitted, grimacing. "But my little brother doesn't think too far ahead. He would have hated himself later for letting her drive him off like that." She sighed and directed herself back to the main point. "Anyway. When I met with the partners, they said I was distracted. They said I could talk to them about advancement in another year or two, when things 'settled down'."

I watched quietly as she began to wash the dishes she'd used and put the containers of food back in the fridge. It was nice to be able to see her after so long, but I felt sorry that things were just as upside down for her and Charlie as they were for me. Her mother, while decent enough in the public eye, was a terror in the privacy of her own home. I knew that, I'd seen it for myself many times before.

"So, what do you think you'll do?' I asked.

Dana only laughed, shrugging with an easy lift of her shoulders that made it seem like it didn't bother her that she didn't have a plan. I knew better. "Stay here, I guess. I quit. Charlie needs me here anyway, I think. So, for a few more months at least, I might try to find a job locally."

"I think that's a good start." I said with a nod. I glanced at the plate she was in the process of drying. "How was the lasagna?"

Dana shook her head in disgust. "I should have let it warm all the way through. But it was almost like it was undercooked anyway. It wasn't very nice at all. Who brought that?"

I laughed then, realizing that she'd gotten ahold of her mother's gift to us. "Your mum, actually. I didn't realize until now."

" _God_." She groaned. "My brother is probably starving as we speak. That woman can't cook to save her life." Dana glanced down at her watch and seemed to be considering something. When she looked back up at me, I recognized the look on her face very well. She was about to make me do something I didn't want to do.

I sighed, already shaking my head. "Whatever it is, you can forget it. I really need to go back to bed."

"No, you don't." She said. "You need a shower and a good breakfast. You need to get out for a few hours. You don't need more sleep, I know you've had plenty or you would have made coffee yourself."

"Dana, seriously." I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I hoped it emphasized the 'seriously' because I didn't really want to have to put much more effort into making the point that I wasn't moving. "I don't want to see anyone, okay?"

"Well, I'm here." She reminded me, mirroring my tone.

"I can't very well kick you out onto the stoop now, can I?" I snapped. "I want to go back to sleep. Stay here, make yourself comfortable. I just need a few more hours of sleep."

Dana hesitated and for a moment I thought that I might have won. But Dana was a professional at arguing her case and also at compromising and it took me a minute to realize that I didn't have a prayer. "Shower and breakfast first." She said. "And then, if you're still tired and feeling averse to the company of other people, I'll bring you back here to do what you want."

"Fine." I grumbled, hopping down off the counter. I brushed past her, muttering to myself, and continued this way all the way up the stairs. She was probably right, but I didn't want her to be. I wasn't thinking clearly and she could see that. Dana could see a lot of things that I wished she couldn't. She was also probably the only one who could steal me away from my grief for a few hours. Didn't I want that? Wouldn't it be nice to have some peace, if only for the morning?

I did as she demanded and showered and dressed in something other than pajamas, but I took my time going downstairs. I was starving, but I was still in no hurry to get out the door. The rain was still pouring down outside and I wasn't excited about getting out in it. It was exactly the excuse I needed to stay inside all day, and Dana had robbed me of that. Twenty minutes went by and I decided that it was time to go downstairs and face my fate. Just as I opened my bedroom door, my cell chimed in my hand. I glanced down at it and saw that it was Sherlock. With a sigh, I opened the message.

 **Awake? - SH**

I stared at the question, wondering why it mattered. I had already made up my mind that if he asked me to go to Baker Street again, I would tell him no. Why should I go? I had no obligation to Sherlock Holmes and I had decided that I would leave John's things as they were for the time being. It was too soon to try to collect them. I could barely even stand to be in my parents' house for any lengthy period of time unless I was unconscious.

 **Only just.**

It was a lie, but it would give me a little room to maneuver if he summoned me like he had the day before.

 **Wondering when you would like that apology. -SH**

I rolled my eyes. A person who had to be told when to apologize. I had certainly hit the jackpot, hadn't I? As far as acquaintances went. Did he really not understand these things? It seemed impossible. Then again, after meeting him, I wouldn't have been surprised if that were indeed the case.

 **In lieu of your silence, I assume I still am not forgiven. -SH**

I stood in the hall, chewing on my lip for what felt like an age. He was still trying to get me to engage. This must have been his idea of extraordinary effort, I thought. Perhaps at first, he had thought me to be nothing more than a mildly interesting subject who breezed through his door attached to John's last name. Now, I wondered if my display yesterday hadn't made him more curious than before. It certainly seemed that way.

 **Unsure. You're surprisingly persistent.**

He didn't respond right away. Suddenly, I felt ridiculous and was almost convinced that I should turn around and go back to bed as I had originally planned. Dana had called for me twice already, growing more impatient each time. I half expected her to come marching up the stairs at any moment, ready to drag me down and out the door. I was putting my cell in my pocket when the chime came again.

 **Shall I continue to prove myself? -SH**

I was definitely considering it, but Dana had called for me _again_ , and this time I heard her start up the stairs. I typed back quickly, feeling the time slipping away as she drew closer.

 **Up to you** _._

I slipped my phone into my pocket just as Dana appeared at the top of the stairs, hand on her hip. "Katherine, have you conveniently lost your hearing?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I certainly wish." I said, hoisting my bag higher up on my shoulder in preparation for our outing. "I'm nearly ready, I'm just going to pop my head in to check on my parents." I was already moving toward their door when she nodded and started back downstairs to make herself scarce.

I knocked on their door, but there was no answer. When I gathered the courage needed to open it a crack and peer inside, I found it empty. I wondered why they would leave without waking me, or at least leaving a note to tell me where they'd gone. I flicked the light on to make sure that there wasn't a note and took a step inside the room to look around. What I saw absolutely stole the breath from my lungs.

There were pictures of our family everywhere, more than I knew they ever had framed. And standing out prominently on their bedside table, next to their wedding photo, was a picture of me and John at my graduation from secondary school. The look of pride, of absolute happiness on his face as he stared out at me from the frame filled my heart until I thought it might burst. I was filled with such a fierce longing for things that had once been that I had the vague thought that it was becoming harder to breathe. I felt cheated, angry, ready to scream at God and the universe for the loss that was eating away at me from the inside out.

It was then that I saw the book. _Crazy Time: Surviving Divorce_. I decided that I'd seen enough and turned to leave, turning the light out and closing the door with a little more force than necessary before I rushed downstairs. Dana stood up from her seat on the couch and looked at me with a fair degree of alarm when I suddenly appeared next to the door, my movements full of so much rage that it rivaled the tempest howling outside.

"I'm starving." I said flatly. "Are you ready to go?"

But she wasn't looking at me. I turned around and saw my dad standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking like he hadn't slept a wink. His hair was still beaded with the rain, he hadn't even had time to take his raincoat off. Dana muttered something about calling a cab and was out the door before I could acknowledge what she'd said.

"I didn't know where you'd gone." I said to him, trying to bleed some of the upset from my tone. "I was looking around for a note."

"It was sudden." He said tiredly. "I took your mother to the station and put her on a train. She's going to stay with Sylvia for a little while."

I didn't have time to control the emotions that played out across my face, like actors who knew they owned their stage. "She _hates_ Aunt Sylvia. Why did Mum want to go stay with her?" I asked, even though I had caught enough of the conversation yesterday to know most of the reasons why. Well, one reason.

"Katherine, she couldn't stay here." He said. "I don't blame her."

"I saw the book, Dad." After I said it, I wished I hadn't because it still wasn't my business, but I felt like I had to know. Not that I was owed anything. Just that I _had_ to know. "Are you separating?"

It took him a moment to say something, but I saw proof enough of my answer in his eyes after I asked my question. He looked defeated, like it was the last thing in the world he wanted. "I don't know yet." He said, but I could tell that wasn't true.

I had to force myself to breathe, to give him room to work through whatever business he had to deal with without me sticking my nose in the middle of it. I nodded despite all of the questions that sat on the tip of my tongue and looked toward the door. "Dana and I are going for breakfast. Can I bring you back something?"

"Not a thing, darling." He said, trying to smile. "It's raining. Take an umbrella."

I don't know that I said anything to him at all, just that I was out on the street with an umbrella one second and crawling into the back of a cab with Dana the next. She knew me well enough to know not to ask and for a moment, I had time to be grateful. But only for a moment.

* * *

" _Blandford's_?" I groused, scowling at the establishment from the sidewalk. I looked at Dana and crossed my arms. "I'm starving and you bring me to a place that takes three-thousand bloody years to serve an entrée."

Dana refused to let my mood bring her down and tsked, shaking her head. "No, no. I'll have none of that out of you. This is _the_ place for breakfast. You know this, Katherine. The wait is worth it."

"I hope you have granola or a _horse_ or something stashed in that bag of yours because I won't make it much longer without something to eat." I watched sourly as Dana all but danced to the door and held it open for me to pass through. I did, grumbling the entire way.

"You'll make it and so will I." Dana said, following me inside. "If I can stand you being this grouchy, I can stand to wait for a really good breakfast."

She began chattering away about the new additions to the menu, my stomach growling too fiercely for me to be able to pay too much attention, and I began scanning the restaurant for empty tables. It was just like our usual waiter to put off seating us just for the sake of making me antsy. He didn't like me and I didn't like him, it was irrational but mutual. It was the sort of surly service that made you wonder how a restaurant ever stayed in business. Every time I saw the notorious fiend, known only as Freddy, I had to bite my tongue to keep from commenting on his outfit out of spite. It had to be the uniform. It had to have been forced on him, otherwise why _else_ would he wear it?

He always was wearing faded jeans so tight that I wondered if he didn't spray them on in the morning. Or maybe he put them on when he was twelve and realized they were irremovable and was therefore doomed to wear them the rest of his adult life. The white shirt, equally as hugging and no less fetching, was just as horrible as the pants. Maybe that was why he was so surly. Maybe tightness of clothes was directly proportional to grumpiness.

Thankfully, I didn't see Freddy. But I couldn't be sure, so I kept looking. Something certainly caught my eye; a vaguely familiar mop of curly brown hair that peeked over the top of one of the front booths. I kept trying to place it, feeling sure after a moment that I was losing my mind. It was only when a waitress sauntered over with a phony smile on her face that I saw the hand – the one with the long, lean fingers that could only belong to one person. One arrogant enough to be gesturing to this poor girl in obvious explanation of something he thought she didn't understand.

I swore under my breath and turned to Dana. "You don't _really_ want to eat here, do you?"

"Katherine, do you not have any patience?" She asked, sighing heavily. "They're about to seat us."

"Joy." I muttered, eyes shifting back to the booth where I knew he was sitting. He'd hunched over now and I could no longer see the top of his head. That made me nervous. I'd have preferred being able to keep an eye on him to make sure he stayed put and didn't startle me by suddenly appearing out of thin air next to me. Just as someone arrived to seat us, Dana's cell began to ring.

She apologized, promising to hurry back, and disappeared out the front door with her cell to her ear. I could detect only a hint of distress in her voice before the door closed on its own, taking her out of earshot. With a sigh, I realized that I would have to pass Sherlock to be seated at the empty booth in the corner. Just as I was about to agree to take the walk to the booth alone, Dana rushed back in.

"I'm so sorry. Charlie needs me, I have to go." She said, hugging my neck quickly. "I'll call you later to get my suitcase. I'm sorry!" She ran out the door without giving me time to say a word. I sighed and turned back to the waiter, beginning the trek to my seat.

In the middle of praying that he would be looking down or out the window instead of at me when I walked past, I heard my name. "Katherine Watson?"

I winced, but turned around. "Sherlock Holmes." I said, without expanding the conversation. The waiter looked between the two of us and I heard him ask if we'd like to be seated at the same table. I opened my mouth to protest, but Sherlock answered before I could.

"That's just fine." He said, and gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit down, Katherine."

I tried not to scowl. My mother had told me often enough how unbecoming it was to scowl at someone and it seemed like her words had stuck with me. "So you _do_ eat." I said after the waiter had disappeared.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Did I seem like I might be wasting away?" He asked sarcastically, lacing his fingers together under his chin. He scrutinized me rather obviously while I desperately kept my eyes glued on the menu in my hand. It didn't matter that I ordered the same thing every time I came. I needed somewhere to look other than his face. I didn't know what excuse I would have when the waiter returned to ask me what I wanted and took my safe haven away from me.

"You just don't seem like you cook. I can't say that I'm surprised to see you here." I said, ignoring his comment entirely. I hadn't realized how close to Baker Street I was. "But Blandford's? I didn't realize that you had that kind of patience."

"I could say the same about you." He said thoughtfully, like he was seeing something in me that wasn't obvious to anyone but him. I looked up from the menu and dared to look him in the eye. Sherlock seemed to me to exist in a separate realm from the rest of the world. He saw the things that other people couldn't. Maybe he didn't understand them completely, but he saw the things that other people ignored. I wondered what it was that he was seeing now.

"Do I not seem like a patient person, Sherlock?" I asked.

Sherlock hummed in the back of his throat, like he was on the precipice of revealing something to me, but then thought better of it. "Patience is irrelevant."

"Well, you can sit there staring at me as long as you like, _or_ you can ask me something." I said, turning back to the menu. "You know. Have an actual conversation."

"I already know everything I need to know." He said. I noticed that he had this way of starting off his sentences incredibly fast, but then he would slow right at the end to emphasize certain words. The effect was dizzying, but it held my interest in a way that nothing had before. It was new and intriguing and _different,_ even if he was impossible.

I was still looking at the menu, feigning indecision, when I spoke again. "All you know are the facts. Have you ever thought about asking me about the rest?"

"What more is there?" Sherlock leaned back in the booth self-assuredly, as if he were sure that there could really be nothing else outside of fact. I copied his movement, finally putting down the menu. The waiter would come back soon, I hoped.

"Plenty. Childhood pets, middle name, favorite movies, preferred reading material." I rattled off a few of the things that came immediately to mind, hoping that one topic would stick.

"Middle name." He said, a smile curling his lips at the edges the same way it had yesterday. Lingering for a moment and then disappearing. "Your parents obviously had a habit of picking very unfortunate ones." Something, a humorous recollection it seemed, made his eyes light up in a way that I hadn't yet seen. " _Hamish_?"

I laughed, _really_ laughed, surprising myself. "Oh, God. John went through life denying that to every means possible." Then, I stopped to study Sherlock, suddenly unsure. "How did you know his middle name was Hamish?"

Sherlock hummed again, sipping his water. "Made a copy of his birth certificate."

I stared at him, mouth hanging open in a rather unceremonious way. "Isn't that... _illegal_?"

He waved his hand through the air between us in a gesture of clear dismissal. "It was necessary." And then his eyes fixed on my face again. "Now. I believe it's your turn."

"If I don't tell you, are you going to steal classified information?" I asked, still floored from his previous admission.

"It isn't stealing." He replied hurriedly. "Just a step that I am feeling rather too idle to take."

I paused, studying him for a moment to make sure that he was actually serious. And he was. I shook my head, feeling foolish. "Linnet." I said. "Katherine _Linnet_ Watson."

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment. "That... isn't bad."

I scoffed, shaking my head in disbelief. " _Now_ you decide to tiptoe around my feelings."

Before he could say anything, the waiter returned and requested my order, which I gave him with a bit too much enthusiasm. I was so eager to have some sort of food that I couldn't hide it. Sherlock saw this. It seemed to amuse him to some degree, which only made me bashful. I sipped my water and thanked the waiter before he left before turning to Sherlock.

"Do you have any more questions for me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A few."

There in Blandford's, waiting for the breakfast I had been reluctant to even venture out for, I had my first real conversation with Sherlock Holmes. And I had the strange thought afterward that it had been one of the nicest conversations that I had been a part of in a very long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**04**.

I couldn't seem to sit still. The waiting room was pretty empty, I thought, considering my usual appointment time had much more competition than two or three people. They all seemed perfectly at ease, flipping through magazines as they waited for the therapist to come and get them. I envied them their calm. It wasn't seeing Ella Thompson that made me nervous. This was my eighth visit so far. I was used to the office now, it was familiar enough that I could almost pretend that I didn't mind being there.

What had me so unglued, I knew, was the way my afternoon had gone. It was so bizarre, so totally unplanned, that I had called straight away to take an empty slot, _any_ empty slot, in Ella's schedule. She had asked me to use her first name, but it still didn't feel quite right. We weren't friends. I wasn't sure if I should say that, though. It was probably considered rude, even if she was just my therapist.

When she came around the corner, looking for me as she called my name, I stood up and nearly ran down the hall to her office. She seemed surprised at first, but decided against asking me where the fire was and followed me inside as I took my usual seat near the window.

"I have a problem." I said, even before she was settled in her chair. "At least I think I do."

"Take your time." She told me. "Catch me up on your week, if you'd like. I have to admit, I was surprised when you called to come in."

"Well, like I said, I have a problem." I repeated myself, running a frustrated hand through my hair. Why was I so flustered? I couldn't figure it out. "And my week was... it was fine. The funeral happened. And I'm... look, this is not why I came here. This is about John's flatmate. Sherlock, you know."

Ella raised an eyebrow. "You met him?"

"Unfortunately." I muttered, and then crossed my arms. "John said he was a good person. So, I didn't think there was any harm in it. Well, this morning, I ran into him when I was out having breakfast. And it was nice. We talked and he wasn't unbearably rude, so when he asked me to walk with him, _again_ I didn't see the harm."

" _Was_ there harm in it?"

"Well, no. But this is where my problem starts. He's... lonely. I suppose. I am, too. Even though I lived alone before – before this, now I feel like everything is too quiet. I came here to stay with my parents, but I can't stand to be in the house for too long. It's empty. Everyone is empty. Sherlock, too, I think."

"I don't think I see what you're getting at, Katherine." Ella murmured, trying to keep me on track. She always used that tone, the one that was soft and low, like the one you would use if you were trying to calm a wounded animal. I tried not to think about that.

"I'm getting there." I said. "So, he's lonely. And I need the distraction. That's what he said, that it was 'a logical fit.' He asked me – no, actually, he _assumed_ that I would move in with him."

For the first time since meeting her, I watched Ella Thompson look well and truly surprised. Her mouth hung open for a good half second before she remembered to close it. "Just like that?"

I laughed, but it was a sarcastic sound. It wasn't full. "I get the feeling he doesn't get on well with many people. And I think that he wants someone to fill the empty space that John left in his life. But I don't think that's how it works. Is it? You can't just replace someone."

Ella thought about it. "I don't think he's asking you to replace John. I think that Sherlock might need a friend. And it seems that you do, too."

"I have friends." I said, sounding defensive.

"Any you've spoken to recently?"

"Dana."

Ella nodded, smiling to herself. "And did it help?"

"In a way. But I think that even though a lot of people are sorry for us, they can't understand. Dana understands a little more than most people."

There was the nod again. "I see. So, you find it easier to be around her because she can understand your grief."

I shrugged. "I suppose so."

She hummed, much like Sherlock did when he was sure he knew something I didn't. This caught my attention and I stared at her, eyes narrowed. "Then imagine how much easier it would be for you to spend time with someone who really _knew_ John. They were flatmates, Katherine. And it seems to me that they had a very strong friendship."

"But isn't that wrong?" I asked. "Isn't there some ethical rule about _not_ using people to feel closer to others? I don't want to be friends with Sherlock because I'm looking for a missing link to John."

"Then don't." Ella said simply. I shifted in my chair to keep from huffing. I hated it when she pretended like everything was as easy as black and white. I knew that I lived my life in a gray area. I wondered when she would catch on to that. "Be Sherlock's friend for the sake of getting to know _Sherlock_. You say it's too quiet in your flat. You can't stand to keep staying in your parents' house. Are you seeing what I'm saying?"

" _No_." I insisted stubbornly. "I can't see how living at Sherlock's would be any easier. It was John's home, too."

"You don't have to live in his shadow, Katherine." Ella told me softly. "It's okay for you to create a life for yourself again. No one will think any less of you for it."

I blinked. Was that what I was worried about? I didn't think so. Maybe she was right. I felt like it wasn't right to move on too quickly. It wasn't right that I should move into the flat where he used to live. It wasn't right that I should have Sherlock as a flatmate or a friend because in my mind, all of these things were still John's. I felt like I was stealing something away from him. But, really, what was there to steal? John wasn't here and I was.

I needed to figure out how to live my life in a way that helped me deal with the empty spaces that John had left behind. Even if it meant embracing them.

"You knew John." I said.

Ella smiled. "I did, indeed. Your brother was an exceptional person, Katherine. And I think I know enough about him to say that he would never begrudge you any happiness. If you came here expecting me to talk you out of this, I'm afraid you wasted a trip. I, personally, think it would be interesting to see where this leads you. It might even be a good thing."

I sighed. "I never said I was going to agree to it."

Ella raised an eyebrow, a sly smile plastered on her face. "If you weren't at least considering it, why would you be here?"

My mouth opened and closed a few times. Damn her. I stood up abruptly and shoved my hands in my coat pockets. "Well, thank you for seeing me last minute. I'll think about everything you said." I started walking toward the door and heard Ella stand and tell me goodbye. I didn't look back. I was too consumed by recollections of the afternoon and the choice that lay ahead.

* * *

Sherlock and I had walked away from Blandford's silently, enjoying the fresh air and the company, I thought. I was caught off guard when he suddenly stopped walking entirely. "How do you feel about the violin?"

I stopped and looked back at him confusedly. I hadn't understood in the moment why it was that he would care what I thought of the violin. Why did it matter? The subject was so far removed from anything we had talked about all morning that it caught me unaware. "I find it lovely. Why?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"

I could only stare. I remembered making some vague noise in the back of my throat, but I was lost for words. I couldn't figure out what route that conversation was taking.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?" He asked, but _didn't,_ and threw me an outrageously false smile. Another noise escaped me. I continued to stare, to blink, feeling the protest building even as the shock outweighed it and had nearly drowned it out.

"I'm sorry. _What_?" I squeaked finally, and I sounded like I was desperate for air. I couldn't remember breathing in those few moments, now that I really thought about it. My entire body had short-circuited in the face of the unexpected.

"I believe that this is a logical fit, Katherine. I am short one flatmate and you admitted yourself that a distraction would be welcome."

"Sherlock, you don't know me. I'm not my brother." I had insisted, trying to remember how to breathe. I wondered if I was going to be ill in the split second before the world righted itself and I regained control of my lungs. "This is... well, it's _crazy."_

"You _can_ refuse the offer." Sherlock reminded me.

* * *

Instead of refusing him, I had promised to think about it. Even that, I didn't understand. But after speaking with Ella, I hoped I had gained a little more perspective. Or at the very least some resolve, one way or another. It had taken me some time to come to terms with the fact that I needed to talk to someone about what I was going through.

I thought at first that unloading on someone was ridiculous. I thought that it made me weak to need someone, to need them to help me find my way. But it wasn't ridiculous and I wasn't weak. Needing help made me human. It was cathartic to talk to Ella sometimes. It was getting easier to say what was on my mind, at least.

And it made it easy then to show up at Baker Street and knock on Sherlock's door. I didn't give myself room to think about it. When I heard the invitation to come in, I did just that and closed the door behind me. I strode to the middle of the room, arms crossed over my chest. Sherlock watched me from his usual seat, but instead of plucking at his violin, he was flipping through a newspaper. He put it down to give me his full attention. I noted that quickly and launched right into my speech.

"Okay. I thought about it." I said, beginning to pace across the floor. Sherlock only watched, waited for me to get everything out of my system. "And I'll do it. I'll move in. But a lot of things would have to change."

Sherlock raised a brow. "As in?"

"This mess. It's shameful. I can't live in chaos. _Organized_ chaos would be better than this." I said, gesturing at the flat with both my arms spread wide. Sherlock scowled, but said nothing yet. "And also, I can't... John's things have to go. I can't compete with his ghost. Can you understand that? I'm moving here for a new start, this isn't me picking up where he left off. If that's what you think, then I'll go right back out that door."

"Do I have permission to speak?" Sherlock asked, sarcasm making his words sharp.

I scowled, despite my mother's many lessons. "Go ahead."

"Firstly, Katherine, this _mess_ is my work. And in my opinion, there is nothing wrong with my organization. Everything is as it should be. Secondly," he put extra emphasis on this word when I opened my mouth to protest, "that is not what I think. This is a matter of convenience for us both, nothing more. I'm not confused as to who you are. I don't believe that to be even remotely possible."

"Do _I_ have permission to speak?" I asked, crossing my arms again. I had stopped pacing, I didn't need to anymore.

Sherlock smirked. It drove me mad immediately, I wanted to smack it right off his face. "Go ahead." He said, repeating my words.

"Your _work_ doesn't have to be strewn all over the flat. I stand by my first request; you have to organize." I stood there, wondering if I'd addressed everything I wanted to. " _Also,_ the kitchen has to be a kitchen. No science experiments. No... jars of miscellaneous organs... and absolutely no heads." I said resolutely, recalling a hysterical phone call I'd received from John not long after he moved in.

"Are you quite done?" Sherlock sighed, tossing the newspaper aside entirely.

"No." I said. "John's things?" I waited, watched as Sherlock hesitated. And I certainly didn't miss the way his eyes wandered to the red plaid chair.

"You can take them." He said quietly.

I rocked back on my heels, suddenly feeling the weight of the room on my shoulders. I nodded before I found the words to say. "Thank you." I murmured. "So, when do you want me here?"

"Tomorrow." He said, almost immediately. I was left flailing.

"Well, I have to pack. And... tell _someone_ at least."

"So, pack." Sherlock shot back, snapping up the newspaper off the coffee table. I could plainly see that he was done with this conversation. I felt my jaw lock as I tried to control my temper and took a deep breath through my nose. I didn't like being dismissed. And I would never get used to it. I wouldn't let him do that to me.

"One last request." I said, my voice as taut as the strings of his violin.

He never glanced up. "What is that?"

"Learn how to have a damned conversation." I growled viciously. Sherlock looked up then, looking almost startled by the sudden change in my demeanor, but he had nothing to say. It almost made it worse. "I'll be here at ten tomorrow morning." I pulled open his door and tried my very best not to stomp down the stairs. When I made it to the street, I leaned over and put my head between my knees and tried to breathe.

I kept telling myself that this wasn't a mistake, even though I wasn't entirely sure. It could very well have been the biggest mistake of my life. There was no way to tell yet. I had to take the risk, make the jump. I needed to learn how to trust myself again, to learn how to live with the fire burning me from the inside out. Sherlock couldn't put it out, but he could help me make my peace with it.

This was my chance. I was going to take it. I took another deep breath, stood up, and called a cab. On the ride back to see my dad, I tried to work out what to say. I tried to work out my reasons with words that he might understand. But by the time I pulled up outside, I had nothing.

Sneaking up to my room wasn't an option, my dad was in the living room watching something that I could tell he wasn't paying attention to. He looked over the back of the couch when I came in the door, taking the time to hang my coat before I faced him.

"KW?" He called softly. "You've been out for quite a while."

I tossed my bag down in one of the armchairs opposite him and thought vaguely that I needed to eat something; my stomach was beginning to growl. I opened my mouth and closed it. I stood around awkwardly for a moment and then I sat. I kept turning over the thought in my head that he wouldn't take it well when I told him about moving in with Sherlock. And I wondered if I shouldn't soften the news somehow, but wasn't it better just to tell him outright?

"I'm moving in with Sherlock Holmes." I blurted, drumming my fingers on my knee. I sounded sure of myself. I was glad of that. He might think I had been giving this a decent amount of thought for a while. I hoped he wouldn't ask too many questions.

He only stared at me, clearly trying to place the name. "Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes." I repeated myself calmly, keeping my voice even though my fingers still drummed frantically on my knee. "John's flatmate."

That rang a bell. My dad's mouth fell open and he shifted so that he could look me right in the eye to convey his indignation to the proper degree. "The _loon_?"

I sighed and my fingers ceased their drumming. "Oh, Dad. He's not a loon, he's just different. And different isn't a bad thing right now."

"Different is dangerous in his line of work." He muttered harshly. "I've heard the stories your brother had to tell about this Holmes fellow and I've read his _blog_ or whatever it's supposed to be. I don't want you anywhere near him, Katherine."

The only thing that even remotely registered during his fit was the mention of Sherlock's blog. I'd known that John had one, but Sherlock? "What are you talking about? What blog?"

"His blog, you know." He insisted, waving his hands about. "The Science of De-something."

"Deduction?" I recalled the word from one of the manuscripts lying around Sherlock's flat. It looked detailed, hand-written. A journal, maybe. Notes at the very least.

"Yes, that." He said, sighing huffily. "I don't like it, Katherine. He's very odd." He watched my face, impassive under his moody gaze. I think he realized then that there was no changing my mind. Dad sighed and leaned back against the couch. "I can't stop you, can I?"

I smiled. "No, Dad. I don't think you can."

If it were possible, his frown became more pronounced. But then it disappeared. "Can I at least ask why you're doing this?"

"I hardly know." I said. "I'm trying to... give myself a chance, I think. I need this."

He paused. "Will you be happy?" The question seemed like it hurt him to ask, like it took something out of him to utter the words I'd seldom heard. My father was a good man, but he had never stopped to ask me things like this before. I realized it was another side-effect. He was worried now about the things he'd never had the time or presence of mind to ask my brother. He was trying to be better for me.

A short, swift sound came from my throat. I wasn't sure if it was a laugh, but it was close enough. I sat there, looking at the floor, thinking. Would I be happy? I gave him the most honest answer I had.

"I don't know."


	5. Chapter 5

**_Hi everyone! I have a few days left before I start classes again, so I thought I'd try to upload another chapter or two before break was officially over. Thank you so much for your reviews and support, I really hope you guys like this chapter! And I hope to hear from you again in the reviews. Have a great weekend!_**

 ** _-lightinside_**

* * *

 **05.**

The night passed fitfully, as it often did, and it seemed that just when I had managed to fall entirely asleep, suddenly it was time to wake again. My cell rang, the sound scraping at my sleep-stuffed ears like nails on a chalkboard as I reached for it. The tips of my fingers brushed the edge of it right before I landed in a heap on the floor. Apparently, I'd misjudged the distance between my bed and the chair that sat near it and reached too far.

I was scowling again when I sat up. I muttered unhappily under my breath as I snatched it off the chair. I tried to be civil when I answered it, but I wasn't sure that I managed completely. "Yes?" I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The scowl hadn't gone away yet.

"Katherine Watson?" A woman's voice floated through the line, sounding wary. "This is Sarah Sawyer. We received your application for the opening here at the clinic last night and I was wondering if you would mind coming in this morning."

 _Oh_. I had done that, hadn't I? I sat in the floor, trying to remember what had pushed me to apply for the opening John had left at the clinic. In the end, I decided that I'd done it on a whim. It had been late and I was tired and desperate to get away and be of use and I'd known that this was the only clinic near Baker Street with a job to offer me should they like my application.

Apparently, they did. Or at least the name that went with it.

"Right. My application." I said, resting my forehead on my knees. This was insane. I regretted this now; it was Ella's fault with her little speech about not having to live in John's shadow. She'd made me lose my head. This was _ridiculous_.

"Yes, you see, we have a position open here. Your brother talked about you often. I'm sure you would be a wonderful addition to the staff here, even though it is a small office. I believe that it would be a good fit."

A good fit. _A logical fit_. It took everything in me not to roll my eyes. I closed them instead and thought about what Sarah Sawyer was saying to me. "Honestly, Sarah, I'm not sure that I could -"

" _Please_ , consider it. Out of all the candidates, you're the one that we want here. I can hold the spot for another day or two to give you some time."

I hesitated. Normally, I wouldn't have second thoughts over letting someone down, but this was different because it was something I associated with John. The clinic had been his life before he'd gone back to war. I couldn't just abandon something he'd cared for so much without thought. So, I agreed to consider it and, after thanking me, Sarah Sawyer released me from conversation. I sighed and leaned back against my bed, checking the time with disinterest.

I'd told Sherlock ten, but it was already nine and I hadn't packed or even started to get ready for the day. I dragged myself to my feet and went off to shower, which I rushed, and then grabbed a protein bar for a pathetic excuse of a breakfast before running back upstairs to gather my things. My dad was already gone somewhere for the day, I saw the note on the outside of my door as I munched my breakfast.

 _Be back later. Sorry if I missed you. Call you later. - Dad_

I grabbed the note and stuffed it in my pocket. I was glad that he'd thought to give me some warning this time, even though I wouldn't be here when he got back. It was nine-fifty by the time I rushed out onto the street to call a cab. And by the time I arrived at Baker Street, it was fifteen past ten. I cringed as I hauled my suitcase out of the trunk and paid the driver.

Here went nothing. I walked up to the stoop and used the crooked knocker and waited. Mrs. Hudson was the one to let me in, I wasn't surprised by that. She was beaming from head to toe when she opened the door.

"Katherine!" She greeted me with a hug, fussing over my bags which I refused to let her carry. "Sherlock told me you were coming today. I'll bring up some tea in a bit. You just make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you." I said, trying to smile back. "Is he upstairs?"

"Oh, yes." She nodded. "That man has been acting half-mad since you left yesterday, cleaning up a storm."

I stopped on my way up the stairs to look back at her. " _Cleaning_?'

Mrs. Hudson nodded again. "Yes, can you imagine? Maybe he was finally embarrassed about his mess. I don't know what's gotten into him, truthfully. It's like he was possessed."

"Possessed." I murmured, fighting back a smirk. "Right. I'll go see what he's up to, then." I started back up the stairs, suitcase trailing behind me loudly as it caught and bumped on the edge of every stair. When I reached Sherlock's door, it was already cracked. I pushed it open and walked inside and despite Mrs. Hudson's warning; I still was shocked at what I saw.

I felt like my jaw dropped clear to the floor. The kitchen was almost spotless, clear of the science equipment that I'd seen on my first visit here, but bags were lying about which made me think that Sherlock had gone to the shop. Books, instead of stacked in tilting piles, had been better organized and stacked in the bookshelves and against walls where overflow couldn't really be helped. There was no dust coating the tables, the dishes were stacked in the rack next to the sink where they could dry which meant that Sherlock had washed them. The red plaid chair had been brought back to life, the laptop and patient files cleared away.

And right by the front door were two boxes with a single name written across them. _John_.

"Sherlock?" I called, dropping my bag on the couch. I still had a hold on my suitcase. "Are you up here?"

He appeared almost immediately from the hallway that lead to the bedrooms. "Here. I see you've finally made it. You said ten."

"I know I'm late." I said, voice apologetic. "I overslept. It looks like you've been..." I looked around the flat once more before I finished my sentence. "You've been busy."

He raised an eyebrow. "This _is_ what you wanted." Sherlock said, but it hovered somewhere between a statement and a question. As if he suddenly was unsure if he'd done the right thing.

I smiled without having to force it. "How long did this take you?"

Sherlock relaxed almost immediately when he saw the smile on my face. He shrugged. "All night."

I started looking around again. The transformation of the flat was astonishing. He stood there, watching me while I studied the space as if I were seeing it for the first time. I could see myself here, I realized. I hadn't been able to before. But now that John wasn't lingering here in the dust and the shadows, I could see a little bit of new life creeping in through the windows. It made it easier to breathe. I took in a deep breath to test out the new sensation and when I discovered that my lungs seemed more willing to accept oxygen than they had as of late, I nearly burst into tears.

This was good, I told myself. It was good to start again. Even if I didn't want to. I couldn't sit in the dark and allow myself to be stuck in the past with a person that would never come home. Sherlock was still watching me. I could feel his eyes, glued to my face as if he feared I might collapse in the floor. I wondered what I looked like to him right now. I tried to keep most of the emotion off of my face, for his sake if not my own. I didn't want to frighten him so soon into our new arrangement. I hadn't even unpacked my things yet.

I tore my eyes away from the flat and looked at Sherlock. "Thank you." I said. My voice was quiet, so subdued that it would have been drowned out had there been anyone else around to make any noise. "This is wonderful. I am sorry, though. I know this will be... different."

"For both of us." Sherlock said. He lifted one of his shoulders in a half-shrug, as if he were trying to act disinterested but couldn't quite manage it. "I have heard that change is good, though I have never been particularly fond of it myself. It will be interesting, I believe, to try something new."

"I suppose so." I said and I realized that I was smiling again. "So." I gestured toward my suitcase. "Where should I put this?"

He beckoned me to him, down the hall. I followed without another word. He led me to the room opposite his at the left end, next to the only bathroom. I tried not to think about that. It would be difficult to share a bathroom with someone again. I hadn't shared since I'd lived at home as a teenager. But Sherlock didn't strike me as the kind of person to waste much time sticking around the flat during the day.

"I cleared out some things." Sherlock said, moving out of the doorway so that I could walk through. The bed was stripped down to the mattress and most of the furniture was gone, save a dresser that was pushed up against one wall.

"Some?"

"Hm. A few." He said, frowning as if realizing for the first time how empty the room was. "I assumed that you might want... _different_ things than were originally placed here."

"There's that word again." I said, sighing.

"Indeed."

"Is this a mistake?"

Sherlock hesitated, as if he'd wondered the same thing. "That is very likely."

I nodded and turned back to face the naked room. "I thought so, too." I said. I liked that Sherlock wasn't afraid to be honest with me, at least about this. I would have to see how long it would take before I was tired of his candor. "Thank you, Sherlock. Really. For putting so much thought into this."

"I didn't." The words erupted from him immediately, as if he were uncomfortable with all the niceties that had been exchanged in the last five minutes. It was proving to be too much for him. "I had nothing else to do."

"Oh." I said. There it was again, the sinking feeling of not knowing what to say. I nodded, still trying to search my suddenly quiet brain for a way to respond. "Still." I said finally. I rolled my eyes with my back turned. This was almost physically _painful_. I walked over to the bed and lifted my suitcase off the ground before dropping it on the mattress, the weight of it pitching my body forward uncomfortably. I sighed and looked around the room again.

"I think I should unpack my clothes." I said, not even glancing back at Sherlock. He still stood in the doorway, transfixed as he watched me move about John's old room. It was like he couldn't seem to get used to the sight. "And then, if you're up for it, I think I would like you to come with me to look at a few things for the room."

Sherlock sputtered. " _Me_." He said.

I turned to him, arms folded over my chest. "It isn't a marriage proposal, Sherlock. It's a shopping trip. You might want to close your mouth."

His mouth, which had been hanging open, snapped shut audibly. He frowned at me for a long time, choosing his next words carefully. "I don't do shopping."

And then, just as quickly as the exchange had begun, it was over. Sherlock nodded his head and excused himself rather abruptly, leaving me to unpack. I did so in silence, listening to him move around in his own small world that seemed to exclude this room and therefore me as well. I felt alone. But I needed the time; I needed to wrap my mind around reality. It seemed very much like a dream to me, even as I began making the small room look more like home. It would need pictures. Some flowers too, maybe. I would need to bring some things over from my old flat, blankets and some of my books. And then, I would sell the rest.

I worried somewhere in the back of my mind about letting my flat go. What if this didn't work? What if all my doubts proved true and I didn't last the month? What would I do? Where would I go? I shook my head and sat down on the bed, trying to ignore the emptiness of the room. I would make it. Baker Street would become my home; running from this wasn't an option anymore. What was done was done. I would _have_ to make it work.

I couldn't feel guilty about living my life. Ella had been right about that. I didn't like to think about it – the empty space. And maybe I was losing my mind. My decisions didn't exactly reflect any degree of collectiveness, everything was erratic and so very unlike me. But that was good – I was taking chances with my time now, instead of hoarding it and keeping it tucked tightly away behind the illusion that I had a hundred years ahead of me to do what I wanted at my leisure.

I was living like it might be stolen away at any moment. And that isn't a bad way to be, I decided, as long as it wasn't fear that was driving you. No, I'd just… woken up. I'd spent my whole life sleeping and now I was awake.

And that was okay. It was okay for me to keep moving forward. Was this the way I should do it? I didn't know. But it was something unexplored and more than a little terrifying and I didn't have the wish to look back and have a life full of 'what ifs.' I'd rather crash and burn than never take the chance. Who knew, really? I could do more than be okay at Baker Street. But there was only one way to find out.


	6. Chapter 6

**06.**

Three very long days later, I finally had my room the way I wanted it. It was smaller than I was used to, but bigger than my childhood room. After having stayed at home again, any extra square footage felt like a gift. It was more than I could have dared ask for, having a flatmate again at twenty-four. I refused to view this as backtracking – I couldn't, or I would never get out of bed.

Already it was a struggle to go about my daily routine, but somehow, I was managing. I had thought that living with Sherlock would be, well, something other than what it was. We had barely spoken since I had invited him out to find furniture. I thought perhaps I'd scared him off completely, but he still said hello in the morning. Excused himself at night.

I was already at the end of my rope with it all. The lack of socialization was doing nothing to keep me from becoming irreversibly depressed. It was happening already, I could feel it. I had stopped answering my phone yesterday, around the time I'd lost my appetite. Now, in the middle of the night, it seemed that the memory of John was also robbing me of rest. I was exhausted, mind, body, and soul, and I couldn't close my eyes. For over two hours, I'd laid in my new bed under my new comforter in John's old room and ached for sleep that wouldn't come.

In the quiet, I could hear rain. Cars passed every so often, tires skating through the puddles left chaotically scattered on the streets below. There was the occasionally rumble of thunder, a periodic flash of light through my veiled window. And the gentle scratching of a pen on paper from the living room that preceded the intermittent playing of a violin. Sherlock was awake, but this was not uncommon. He'd warned me about his habits the day I'd rushed to see Ella Thompson. Sherlock had been, if nothing else, true to his word.

I rolled over with a sigh, punching the pillow under my head with the greatest impatience. _Lull me to sleep_ , I willed it. _Please_.

At this point, I was contemplating walking downstairs and out into the street to hand the first person I saw a fistful of money before asking them to knock me out. Another ten or fifteen minutes passed – I knew because I checked my cell. I'd heard you weren't supposed to when you were trying to rest. Something about blue light. But it was time to give up the ghost. I wasn't going to get any sleep tonight.

I threw back the covers and walked quietly to my door. It opened without much of a sound, but the sounds of the violin quieted into a whisper as I made my way to the living room. Sherlock was looking directly at me as I emerged from the hall.

"Are you wearing _child's_ pajamas?" He asked. _Ever the gentleman_.

I looked down at my ratty Buggs Bunny pajama set with a shrug. I should have retired them a while ago, that was true. But my parents had retrieved them for me during one of their trips to America. My mother had gotten it in her head that she wanted to visit every American theme park that she could during a single summer. One happened to be Six Flags in a sunny little state called Georgia. And for all their adventures, all I got was one set of pajamas and a coffee mug. I couldn't help it if I was a little too attached to them.

Sherlock took my shrug as an answer and leaned over to scribble something on a sheet of paper before looking back at me. "It's 3 a.m." He said.

"I couldn't sleep." I gestured wearily to the violin. "You don't mind an audience, do you?"

"It makes no difference."

Contrarily, he began to put away his violin as I sank gratefully into the red armchair across from him. I pretended not to notice but wondered if I was intruding. Then again, I hardly thought Sherlock to be the kind of person that wouldn't say if I were. Instead, he'd started staring at me. He didn't seem scrutinizing, but he wasn't curious either. Which meant he was seeing everything he needed to see and that I had no control over what I was giving him.

"You should stop that." I said, lowering my gaze to the floor. There were crumpled pieces of paper there, abandoned in a rush. I focused on them to keep my cheeks from burning. "Stay out of my head. I don't remember extending you an invitation in the first place."

Sherlock leaned back, and the calculating look vanished from off his face. "Habit." He said.

"Not with me. I'm not one of your cases." I leaned down and snatched one of the mangled wads of paper up from the rug. I didn't try to straighten it out, just rolled it in my palm. I needed something like this, I decided. A portable outlet for social stresses. "Speaking of which, you aren't accepting any, are you? I've been here for three days. Your inbox is bursting. All you've done is sip tea and scribble and play your violin." Four sentences in, and now he was the one refusing to look at me. " _Why_?"

"I don't see you rushing off to join the masses." Sherlock muttered. "Or how this is any of your concern."

It wasn't. However, the lateness of the hour and lack of sleep had rendered me rather infantile and I was less than appreciative of his attempt to deduce my behavior. A moment of silence and half a beat later, Sherlock had started drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. It was a gesture of boredom, a sign that I was wasting his time. I could feel my skin grow hot and start to prickle – a sign that _I_ was about to lose it.

I took a deep breath and tried again. "I want to help you." I said. The drumming stopped. "I want this," I gestured to both him and the flat around us, "to have _not_ been a mistake. For that to happen, you have to use your words. I don't know you. I'm not John, I can't just look at you and tell if you need to be left alone. You have to tell me."

Sherlock's fingers twitched like he might start the drumming again. If he had, I would have stormed off to my room and refused to come out until he wasn't present. But he seemed to think better of it and grew fidgety as he searched for what I'd requested; words.

"I don't have any." He said, slow and deliberate. The process of being straightforward was, for both of us, excruciating. "For them. The people crowding my inbox, as you said."

"You don't have any words." I repeated. I tried to keep a stupid look from appearing on my face, knowing that he would pick up on it immediately. He had plenty of words now, didn't he? When he found my questions inane and my presence to be a nuisance. But as I let his admission sink in, I realized he didn't. I remembered the quiet; the hello, the goodnight. He sat alone, sipping tea. He ignored his phone. He hadn't told me to bugger off when I'd interrupted him playing or become vocally annoyed when I'd taken shots at his antisocial behavior.

"No." He said but offered no more information.

"You mean, you don't _want_ to talk to them?"

" _No_." Sherlock repeated, growing frustrated. "Aren't you listening?" He stood from his chair in a fit of agitation and stalked to the window, where he quickly turned his back on me to look out over Baker Street. He seemed to take a deep breath. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. "I do express myself, Katherine, it simply isn't the way you are used to."

" _How_?"

"This is absurd." His voice rose again, and I saw his fists clench at his sides, as if he were trying not to combust. I knew that feeling, knew I shouldn't push him. But I spoke again and put the final nail in the coffin of the conversation.

"I want to understand." My voice was almost pleading, I sounded pathetic. He had no patience for that. Instead of staying put at the window, he'd grabbed his coat and rushed for the door before I could even stand.

Sherlock said something about going for a walk, but it was raining, and it was dark and freezing out. I knew he was just trying to get away from me. I managed to stand, but the door was already shut. I'd never opened my mouth to say a word. And it occurred to me that, though Sherlock had, he had never insulted me by saying that I couldn't understand.

I realized then that I knew more about what he was going through than I thought. I floated back and forth from John's chair to the sofa for a few hours, chewing my lip, watching the door.

Having had an adequate amount of time to think about what he said, I had figured out what he meant. And I was now a woman possessed. I couldn't sit down, couldn't breathe – I wanted to tell him that I knew. It wasn't that he didn't have things to say, it was that he had no interest in saying them. He felt there was no point in explaining the unexplainable. He didn't use words, he used his violin. Music was his outlet. That was why he never slept. There was no relief in sleep, only when he played. It was why he didn't speak, just scribbled.

It was why I'd stopped answering my phone and started sleeping so much. I didn't have an outlet. I wanted to tell him that, tell him everything.

By 5 in the morning, I realized that I was wasting my time. He never came back, and I couldn't call.

He'd left his phone.

* * *

When I awoke, I was still on the sofa. The morning light streamed in from the window Sherlock was so fond of looking out of, blinding my tired eyes as I groaned into the cushions. A quick glance at my cell told me it was not even mid-morning. I'd slept a grand total of four hours. Everything was as it had been when I'd accidentally dozed – vacant.

Sherlock still hadn't come back.

I sat up, rubbing at my eyes as I tried to shake exhaustion from my limbs. I glanced toward the door with a sigh. If I were to apologize properly, I should look halfway decent when Sherlock decided to return. I made my way to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and crawled into a scalding shower where I stayed for nearly an hour.

I tried not to make a rush for the living room when I was decent again. If Sherlock had come home, I would be damned before I looked like I'd been worried. The apologies that I'd wanted to share the previous night were gone. In their place were a long list of expletives that I would have loved to hurl at him, should he have been sitting in his chair by the fireplace.

He wasn't.

A feral sound of frustration escaped me before I could hush it. I rolled my eyes and skulked back down the hall to my room. How dare he behave this way! It was unbecoming of a grown man. Disappearing for hours at a time with no word, no way to check on him. I sat down on the edge of my bed, hair dripping. Should I call the police? Could he be hurt? The moron could have been lying in a ditch somewhere for all I knew. I stood again, prowling instead of pacing as I weighed my options. I could go out and look for him myself, but I couldn't begin to guess his favorite haunts.

An epiphany struck me and I dashed to the front door and ripped it open before nearly tripping down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson came around the corner first, looking startled. Whether it was by my appearance or the crazed twist of my features, I didn't know.

"Mrs. Hudson, would you happen to have any idea where Sherlock usually goes when he's sulking?"

She frowned and reached out to pat my arm. "Fighting already? I told him to behave. He just doesn't listen anymore."

"It was my fault, really." I said. "But that's not important. Do you have an idea of where he might have gone?"

"Gone off and left his phone again?" Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Oh, dear. Let me think for a moment."

The moment passed. And then another. And another.

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Just another moment dear, let me think."

I realized very quickly that this was useless and asked her to call up to me should she think of something in a while. I ran back up the stairs and closed myself in the flat. Nearly out of breath, I walked back to my room to find _my_ cell should Sherlock call from a different number for some reason.

Then again, when he left earlier in the morning, he'd been well and truly upset. Chances were that some of that was aimed at me. Not all of it could be grief. That meant that chances also were that he wouldn't be calling. And I wouldn't know if he were alive until he showed back up at the door.

Grumbling to myself, I flopped dejectedly over on my bed and shoved music into my ears. It was so loud that I was sure, should anyone else have been in the flat, they would have heard it as well. Losing my hearing to the loud cacophony of AC/DC was the least of my problems and was a welcome distraction during the hours that followed. Hours which I spent googling the almost forgotten blog that my father had mentioned in the days before my move to Baker Street.

In the beginning, I'd hesitated. Was it really right to go snooping around? But it was a blog – it was public information. So, I typed exactly what he'd said into the search box. _The Science of Deduction_.

It was the first result on the page. I raised an eyebrow and clicked it without much expectation. I skimmed, becoming more and more interested as I went. Sherlock called himself "the world's only consulting detective". Was that true? It sounded to me as though, despite his popularity, he'd just created a job for himself out of thin air. It didn't seem official at all. And I would have doubted his skill had I not been witness to the incredible volume of e-mails and text messages he received daily asking for his help.

But in all the time John had lived here, it was 'Sherlock' this and 'Sherlock' that, and 'you should meet my flatmate, that's the only way to understand what I'm talking about'.

Well, I'd met him.

I still didn't understand. So, I did what any self-respecting member of today's society would do and kept digging for more dirt. I couldn't find much. It seemed that Sherlock had archived many of his older cases and I was denied access to their details. Disappointed, I surfed through some of his more recent posts. One in particular caught my eye.

 ** _'_** _Analysis of Tobacco Ash: DELETED!'_

 _No need to shout about it_ , I thought as I clicked on it. I was then redirected to a folder which he'd so very originally named 'Case Files', which held several of Sherlock's last cases that he had apparently taken on with my brother. This was what I'd come here for. I narrowed my eyes and clicked on one labeled 'The Blind Banker' and I was once again redirected, but not to the place I expected.

I suddenly found myself in the middle of another blog. _John's_. There it all was, every single case they'd taken together. And I had never known about any of it.

 _The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_ greeted me brightly, displaying a smiling picture of my brother next to a sulking Sherlock wearing… a deer stalker? I right-clicked and saved the image to my desktop for later.

Looking at my brother, I felt a dull ache start in my chest and work its way to my heart. I swallowed and tried to push it down as I scrolled to read more posts. One, 'A Strange Meeting', was almost at the very bottom of the line. I clicked.

It was all about the first time John had clapped eyes on the world's _only_ consulting detective. I read with an eagerness that was foreign to me. Fondness followed unexpectedly. John wrote of his therapist, _our_ therapist, Ella Thompson and his friend Mike Stamford and their trip to Bart's Hospital to see Sherlock. Since I knew all about Mike, he'd been at John's funeral, I skimmed until the information was relevant to the reason I'd opened the web browser in the first place.

 _"Except, he didn't. He didn't introduce us. The man knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me. He knew I'd served in Afghanistan and he knew I'd been invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic so he didn't get everything right but he even knew why I was there, despite the fact that Mike hadn't told him._

 _I googled him when I got back to the flat and found a link to his website_ _The Science of Deduction_ _._

 _It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange._

 _So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes."_

A hand reached out and pushed my laptop closed. I ripped the music out of my ears and looked up to find a man that wasn't Sherlock standing not five feet from my bed. I started screaming before I could help myself.

"Wait!" The man shouted. "Wait just a minute!" He saw that I was diving for the pepper spray in my bedside table and took ten steps back, hands raised. "OI! JUST A SECOND!"

Pepper spray in hand, poised to strike, I stared him down. "What is it? Who are you? What are you doing in my flat?"

The man scoffed, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "Look here, I didn't know anyone moved in. This is Sherlock Holmes' flat, yeah?"

" _Yeah_." I replied, waving the pepper spray again. He took another step back.

"I'm D.I. Lestrade. I have a warrant – "

I dropped the pepper spray when he held up his badge and a warrant and rushed past him and out into the hall to find the entire flat crawling with police. Sherlock's papers were being rifled through, the cushions being ripped up to be checked over – nothing was left unturned. Mouth hanging open, I turned back to Lestrade. "A warrant for _what_?"

Two officers donning blue gloves pushed past us and into my room. I stormed after them, ready to pounce should they find it necessary to start digging through my underwear drawer. "This is ridiculous." I said, turning back to Lestrade. "I have the right to know what you're doing in this flat."

"As do _I_."

I was going to make myself sick spinning to look at people. But I knew that voice. Down the hall, Sherlock stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He nodded to Lestrade before gesturing to the madness around us in question. He did nothing to keep them from digging through his things, or mine for that matter.

My underwear drawer opened with a squeak, and I poked my head around the corner. " _Hey_!" I shouted. "Keep your filthy paws _off_." The officer who was unlucky enough to have opened it realized I meant business and slammed it shut in the same breath. I turned back to Lestrade.

"Drugs bust." He said, then looked at Sherlock. "So, where is it this time? What have you got?"

I scoffed. " _This_ guy? A junkie? Please."

Sherlock shifted, looking a little more than uneasy as he cleared his throat. " _Katherine_ …"

It took a second to sink in. I blinked. I gasped. And then I hit his arm harder than I would have thought possible. " _Sherlock_." I hissed.

He winced. " _Well_ …"

"SHERLOCK!" I gritted my teeth to lower the volume of my voice before trying again. "In the flat?"

He shook his head. "No." He said and then repeated the phrase to Lestrade. " _No_."

I'd had more than enough. I grabbed my cell and excused myself from the scene, marching down the stairs and out onto the street. I sat on the curb until Lestrade and his cronies had finished their business. And then I sat for a few minutes more.

Feeling that I had sufficiently gathered my wits, I sighed and began the trek back inside. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, plucking sheepishly at the strings of his violin. He looked up when I made my entrance but said nothing. I stood at the edge of the sofa for a moment before I reached out and tapped the end of his shoe.

"Budge over." I said.

He blinked at me for a minute before he bent his knees and made room for me to sit down, which I did with as little sighing as possible for his benefit.

"No shouting, then?" He mumbled, avoiding eye contact as if he were expecting me to explode at any given moment.

"Not about this." I said. "But the next time you storm out on me without your cell, I'll call down the whole of Scotland Yard upon you."

His lips twitched at that. "Family trait. You worry far too much."

I reached out again and thumped his shoe with my knuckles to add emphasis to my threat. "I mean it."

Sherlock plucked at his violin again. "I know."

I knew that he would never apologize for making me worry because he saw it as unnecessary. But he was here and Lestrade was gone and both of us were either too tired or too relieved to be angry with the other anymore.

I closed my eyes and settled into the sofa. Before long, Sherlock set aside his instrument, but I never opened my eyes to find out why. And just before I dozed, I heard the familiar sound of tapping fingers against the screen of a phone.

He was answering his e-mail.


	7. Chapter 7

**07.**

I slept all through the day, that night, and well into the early hours of the next morning. I was going to have to make another appointment with Ella about this. She'd warned me about this, sleeping all the time. It was a sign of situational depression – exhausted all the time, sleeping all the time, and never feeling any more rested than before. I made a mental note of that and pushed myself to get up from where I still lay on the couch.

Sherlock was knocking around in the kitchen, oddly enough. I couldn't see him from where I sat, but my nose registered an odor most foul and I groaned. I rubbed my eyes and stood, stretching through the disgust.

Sherlock peeked out of the kitchen. On his face were safety goggles, accompanied by an apron and what looked like thick yellow cleaning gloves. "You're awake." He said. "I did wonder if you were still alive."

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. "You didn't think to check if I were still breathing?" He waved me off and disappeared back into the kitchen. I shuffled to the door, wrinkling my nose as I went. "What in God's name is that smell?"

"Sulfuric acid. Testing it on organic materials." With his back still turned to me, he held up something in each hand. "Eggshell. Rooto drain opener. Elementary."

"Then _why_ are you doing it?"

"You took it upon yourself to sleep for," he pulled back a glove to check his wrist, "21 hours." Sherlock busied himself again with his household experiment. "This is the result of a great deal of boredom."

"I'm not your _monkey_." I muttered. "You can, I don't know, find other things to do. Things that don't make the entire flat smell like a swamp."

"Eat something, Katherine." Sherlock said flatly. "You are almost intolerable before 7 am."

" _Me_?" I sputtered, pointing to myself in utter disbelief. " _I'm_ intolerable?"

"Eat." He repeated.

Scowling, I snatched an apple from the side of the counter that was untouched by eggshell or drain opener and lumbered off to take a shower. Halfway through _Katherine's Bangin' Tunes Volume 1_ , another smell started wafting around the flat. This one was so horrendous that I could smell it through the lavender shampoo and _Irish Spring_. I jumped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my body, and stormed out into the hall.

" _WHAT_ are you doing?" I shouted, trying to keep my towel up and save myself from the stench of death. "What is that?"

In each of his hands was a bottle of Febreze. "Mediterranean Lavender." He said, holding up one. "And Tahitian Sunrise." He waggled the opposite at me, unfazed by my look of horror.

"It smells like roadkill." I said, beginning to cough. "Put them down. We're getting out of here."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked at each of the bottles. "I read that these were supposed to cure odors."

"Not two opposite scents. Not _sulfuric acid_." The cough grew steadily worse. I shook my head and turned to leave.

"Katherine?"

I glanced back at him over my shoulder. I couldn't stand to turn back fully to the blossoming mushroom cloud of chemicals behind me.

"You're dripping all over the floor."

After pressing my lips together, I marched myself back into the bathroom and finished rinsing the shampoo from my hair before rushing to get ready before we were poisoned from whatever was drifting through the air. Sherlock seemed much restored to his old ways – he was unbearably sarcastic, shockingly straightforward. _This_ was the man I'd heard so much about.

I had to admit, I preferred him like this to the withdrawn shell of a person I'd stumbled in upon. He was trying. It wasn't that he was bored. It was that he had to keep himself busy. I understood that and could never really be upset with him for it – I wanted to do the same.

Before leaving the sanctuary of my room, I dialed Sarah Sawyer and left her a message saying that I would accept the position she had offered if it were still open. It was part-time, only a few hours in the mornings before lunch. But it would get me out into the world and back on my feet one baby-step at a time. I needed that. I had to stop sleeping, I had to rejoin the general population and live my life.

When I'd gathered my thoughts and my things for the day, I tucked my nose into the collar of my coat and rushed down the hall, snatching Sherlock by the coat sleeve as I went. I dragged him behind me until we were on the stairs and safely away from the flat.

"Next time, do us both a favor and just open a window." I said, smirking. Before he could protest, I turned and made my way down the stairs and out to the street. I could sense his frown even behind my back. For the first time in a while, it wasn't raining.

The air was chilled, and the sky was gray, but there wasn't a raincloud in sight. That was good because I hadn't even thought to bring my umbrella. Silently, Sherlock stepped out and hailed a cab. As it was pulling over, my cell began to ring and, with a quick glance at the caller, I answered it.

"Dad?"

"Morning, Katherine." He said tiredly. "How are you?"

Sherlock opened the door of the cab and slid inside, gesturing for me to follow impatiently when I didn't move immediately after him. I nodded and hopped in, closing the door behind me.

"Oh," my father said. "You're busy. I'll just talk to you later, darling."

"Is anything wrong?" I asked, cutting him off before he could end the call. My dad never called just to chat. There had been a reason for this, I knew it. I wasn't letting him get away before he confessed it to me.

"Nothing. Just… have you happened to hear from your mother?"

I blanched. It had been at least a week since she'd left for Sylvia's. My mother _was_ the one to just call and chat. "No." I said. And I didn't have to ask to know he hadn't heard from her either.

"Well, alright then." He sighed. "I'll let you go. I love you much, KW. Stay safe."

"Will do, Dad. I love you."

I hung up first. I couldn't relax my reeling mind. I knew my parents were separating, most likely when my mother decided to return from France and resume her life. But not calling was an indication that she was happy there – content. She called us when she was antsy and in a mood to fuss about not being home to cook dinner. My mother assumed that when she was gone, both my life and that of my father was only seconds away from collapsing.

It was mid-October. She would usually be home, starting to make her plans for the holidays. She liked to call our relatives in advance to start guilting them into joining the Watson's for her famous Christmas dinner. And then she would recruit me to start helping her buy presents for people like Sylvia and her son Kyle.

I hated it. Every year, I hated it.

Right now, I missed it. I was worried for her, worried for _me_. What if she decided not to come back? Just sent my dad the papers in the mail and stayed in France with Sylvia. It sounded so dramatic, but she wasn't above things like that. I would never admit it under normal circumstances, but I learned my moxie from my mother. She was invaluable to me, much like oxygen. And I wouldn't get over it if she never came home.

I had just begun to dream up ways to convince her to come back when Sherlock spoke. It was something I didn't quite catch, so I had to lift my head to look at him and ask him to repeat himself.

" _Where_ are we going?" He asked again, sounding bored. "You insisted we leave the flat."

"Wherever you like, Sherlock." I said. "It doesn't matter to me." I turned back to the window and tuned out while he gave the cabbie instructions.

Even lost in my thoughts, I noticed how Sherlock made an effort to sit as far from me as possible. He was nearly pressed against the window. He would have been, had he scooted just another millimeter to the right. And then I noticed that I was doing the same.

Our hands were in our laps. His flat on his thighs, mine clasped together, and our eyes were everywhere but on each other. Neither of us spoke. The hum of the engine and whisper of the tires on the road were the only noises in the cab. Especially with my mind in turmoil, the thought of things being like this – ridiculous and strained – didn't do anything to encourage me.

"Your father." Sherlock said suddenly. "Is he… are…" He scowled, seeming frustrated, and then fell silent again.

"Alright?" I asked, fishing for the end of the sentence. He paused for a moment, then gave a quick bob of his head. Sherlock was asking if my dad was alright.

"He's fine." I said. My answer was rushed. I could tell that Sherlock noticed that because he cut his eyes toward me, searching for something I refused to show. Then, it seemed he remembered my insistence that he stay out of my head and so he turned back to the window.

"Thanks." I blurted. Then blushed. Then wanted to fling myself out into the street and beg someone to hit me with their car. Sherlock looked mildly alarmed – he didn't know what to say either. I'd been furious at him for lacking social graces. It turned out that mine had gone into recession since moving my things into his flat. "For the, you know, thought. For asking. About my dad."

I had to shut up. I had to stop talking. It was physically painful for _me_ to hear myself keep trying to make things less awkward. I couldn't imagine what he was thinking.

"You don't have to do this." He said.

I shifted to face him. "What?"

"The talking thing." Sherlock said. "Your cheeks are red. You are clearly uncomfortable."

"Okay." I turned back to the window before the blush could visibly creep down my neck. "No more talking."

I never even thought to ask him where we were going.

* * *

Apparently, Sherlock's idea of a good time was hanging out in the morgue at St. Bart's. Giving him free rein to pick our destination hadn't been the better of my good ideas. I bit my tongue and followed him inside, but quickly drew the line when I realized that the morgue was exactly as I imagined: cold, dimly lit, and in the sub-floors of the hospital.

My worst nightmare.

"Why are we here?" I asked. "This wasn't exactly what I meant when I said I didn't care. I thought…" I looked at the glare of the light dancing across one of the examination tables with a shudder.

"You never specified where you would like to go." Sherlock stated, shedding his coat. "I have business to attend to. You may sit. Molly keeps books at her desk."

"So, I'm just supposed to hang out. In a morgue." I nodded, pursing my lips in distaste. "Right." What I wouldn't admit was that this place gave me the heebie-jeebies. I hated it. I was afraid right down to my bones, but I couldn't very well run out of there screaming. I sat down, as he'd said, and watched him go about his 'business', just as comfortable here as he would have been back at the flat. "You come here a lot?" I asked.

"Yes." He said.

My flatmate hung out in morgues. I said nothing in return and ambled off to find a book to read. I had nothing better to do and I refused to go to the flat with that horrific smell still lingering. After hitting up a vending machine for the world's tiniest bag of peanuts and a pop, I settled in with a very torrid looking romance novel. Not really my taste, but it was that or an anatomy textbook.

About thirty or so pages in, a woman in a lab-coat came wandering out into the hall. She had change in her hand – she was going to spring for some overpriced peanuts too, I imagined. Upon seeing me, she gasped. A broad smile broke out over her face and she rushed to my side.

"You must be Sherlock's flatmate." She said, extending a hand. Unfortunately, it was the hand that held her change and it went skittering all over the bright white floor. "Oh, goodness." She muttered and dashed down to retrieve it. I helped as much as I could, but her movements were so erratic that we nearly bumped heads twice. When she stood again, she held out her hand a second time. I shook it and she introduced herself. "I'm Molly Hooper. This is my lab. Morgue. Whatever you'd like to call it. Sherlock likes to do some of his work here."

I smiled back at her. "I'm Katherine." I said.

"Oh, yes. I know." Molly blushed. "I'm sorry, was that rude? I just meant that I've heard about you before."

I arched a brow, confused. "Sherlock told you?"

"Oh, goodness, no. Sherlock never tells anyone anything personal." She said with a sigh. "John talked about you often. And Mrs. Hudson said that John's sister had moved in with Sherlock – I just recognized you. I figured you must be her. You have that look about you. I suppose all the Watsons must have it."

Molly Hooper was a talker, but I could tell it was out of nervousness and not the want to chat. I knew that feeling very well. I held up my pop and gestured to the seat beside me. "I'm just sitting here while Sherlock finishes up. I'd love some company if you're not too pressed for time." I set aside her book. "I can't seem to lose myself in this.

Molly blushed again when she saw her book on the chair, but then began to laugh. "It _is_ pretty awful, isn't it?"

I hesitated for a moment before hanging my head. "Extremely. I mean, 'dark chocolate orbs'?"

Molly threw her head back, thoroughly tickled. Her brown hair bounced in a rather endearing way, as if it had a life of its own. "I know, I know. It's terrible. I just can't bring things here that really would hold my attention. I wouldn't be able to work." She put her money in the machine and made her selection. It dropped into the bin below and she retrieved it before walking quickly to take a seat next to me. "So," she said. "Tell me about life with the madman."

Molly opened her crisps, grinning at me. I grinned back. So, Sherlock did whatever it was that he dragged me to Bart's for while I talked to Molly Hooper. And I had the thought that I might just have made a friend.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Hi guys! This might be my favorite chapter yet, it was so much fun to write. I have finals in the next two weeks, so I don't know when I'll update again, but I hope this will hold you over for now! Enjoy and please tell me what you think in the reviews!_**

 ** _-lightinside_**

* * *

 **08.**

Weeks went by. Life was picking up pace again, but I couldn't lie and say that it was getting any easier. So, I smiled and nodded and said that I was fine, that things were better. Sarah Sawyer had called and given me my new schedule. I'd had my first week at my new job – I was slowly rejoining the masses. But this morning was mine, I didn't have to share it with any patients who coughed in my face or went diving for pharmaceuticals when my back was turned.

No, it was me, my coffee, and an incredibly grumpy consulting detective. I sipped a little too loudly just to bother him as he muttered to himself, bent over his makeshift lab in the kitchen. He was nearly incoherent. I had tried to stop listening, but it was a curious sight and I was his captive audience.

I wondered as he worked if Dana were still in town. She'd never called since that day she'd rushed from Blandford's. I didn't know how she was or if Charlie had turned out okay. Dana had a way of doing that – keeping in touch and then dropping off the face of the earth. I tried not to let it get to me, as she'd always been that kind of person. Here one day, gone the next, only to show up months later and pick up where she'd left off.

That was one of the reasons her mother worried for her so much. And it was also partly the cause of Charlie's many publicity stunts that were too often close calls. But there had always been more to their situation than most people knew.

I did. So, I kept sipping my coffee and made the decision not to call. Dana would, when she had a moment to breathe.

After swearing under his breath, Sherlock snapped to attention and whirled on me. I recognized that look on his face. He used me as an outlet to take out all his frustrations. I sighed and took a very long sip of coffee in preparation for what was to come, one which drained my cup.

"Are you going to sit there all morning or are you going to be a productive member of society?" He called, glancing pointedly at my empty cup.

I scowled and got up to refill it, pushing pointedly past him on my way to the coffee pot. "Depends." I said. "Are _you_?"

Cup renewed, I took another obnoxious slurp. I found that I enjoyed the way annoyance flashed across his face. I bit my lip to keep from smirking just as _his_ mouth flattened into a grim, unappreciative line. It was very early in the day, maybe I should have been nicer. But this was too fun.

"I am being productive." He snapped and turned back to his lab. He started shuffling papers around trying to look busy.

"Really? And just what are you doing?"

He refused to answer me. Instead, he walked straight to the coffee pot, turned so that he was looking straight at me, and dumped the whole thing down the sink.

My mouth fell open, I couldn't stop it.

Without a word, he stalked past me and out of the kitchen. I stumbled to my feet, grabbed my coffee, and followed him. Sherlock was already situated in his armchair, tapping away on his phone. He wouldn't look up when I walked in.

I look one last infuriatingly loud gulp of my coffee. From the way his eyes flew to mine, full of loathing, I knew the sound was like nails on chalkboard to him. I waved my fingers at him coyly and turned on my heels, rushing to my bedroom while I still had the upper hand.

"Heathen!" He yelled down the hall.

"Jackass!" I yelled back and slammed the door.

Just another sunny day on Baker Street.

* * *

I somehow managed to beat him to the shower and I took my precious time in the bathroom. He'd wasted a perfectly good pot of coffee, I was out to get him now. When I came out, hair in a towel, Sherlock was once again hunched over, but this time he was studying paperwork.

"What's that?" I asked, squinting as I tried to make out what it might be.

"Oh. Have you decided to behave decently?"

I crossed my arms over my chest, fighting the urge to be petulant. "Don't even start."

He looked up then. With an eye roll and a heavy sigh, he put down whatever he was reading. "I assume you realize how ridiculous you look with that thing on your head."

"My hair is wet." I retorted. "What excuse do you have for the things you wear? _Turning your collar up_?"

" _Please_." He scoffed.

"You think it looks cool. At least I don't wear _this_ ," I gestured to the towel, "out of the flat."

"Is there a point to this, Katherine? And will you reach it before I have aged an additional thirty years?" He asked blandly, voice monotone. It infuriated me. I hated it when he used that voice on me. I huffed and ripped the towel from my hair, ignoring the way the curls roared to life even under the weight of residual water.

"You're being especially rude this morning. Any reason why?"

He mimicked my huff and scowled resentfully up at me from where he sat. "Don't you have work today?"

"It's one of my days off." I reminded him. "Sorry to disappoint, but you'll have me around all day." In answer, he groaned and snagged a paper off the coffee table. Fanning it out with a most dramatic flair, he proceeded to hide his face behind it and dutifully ignore me. I rolled my eyes and threw myself down in John's chair. The longer I lived here, I could feel myself falling back in time. Our interactions were childish at best, we couldn't seem to stay off each other's last nerve. I felt sixteen again. And it was terrible.

As I sulked, I looked at my cell for the first time all morning and felt my stomach leap to my throat. I had three missed calls from my mother. I tapped her name, putting the phone to my ear as it rang though she'd called easily an hour before.

She answered on the first ring. "Darling?"

" _Mum_?" I asked. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine, dear. Of course. I'm back in town." She said, speaking nonchalantly as if this wasn't the first conversation we'd had since she left. "Sylvia drove me up the wall – it was leave or commit myself, so here I am."

"Oh. I thought you wouldn't last very long, I even told Dad." I said, ignoring the way Sherlock was peeking at me over his newspaper. For someone who seemed so disinterested, he really was a snoop. "No, Katherine, I mean that I'm here."

"Here. In London." I sounded almost robotic. "I know, Mum. I'm not totally ridiculous." At this, Sherlock scoffed. I shot him the most withering glare I could manage.

"Outside your flat, darling." She said. "I couldn't go back to your father, we're figuring out some things. Dana told me where you were living now, I'm sorry I missed the move. But it is rather cold out and I would, _please_ , like to be let in."

"You – you're – I thought – you didn't say you were coming."

Sherlock put down his paper.

"I tried calling several times earlier, but you never do have your phone." She sighed. "Please, Katherine. Can we have this talk when I've settled in?"

Settled in. She had her suitcase, she had to – she'd come straight from the train station. She really was staying here. I stood up, frozen in horror as I looked pleadingly at Sherlock. He was wary, shifting as though he was readying himself to leap up and bolt for the street. I dropped the phone from my ear and muted the call.

"My mum is _here_." I said.

Sherlock immediately began shaking his head. "No, no." He insisted. "I don't do mothers. I very much dislike them. She can't stay here."

"She's here already, Sherlock. Outside." I pointed to the window. "Go and have a look if you don't believe me."

Indeed, he rushed to the window and peered cautiously through the drapes. He flinched away from them as if he'd been bitten. Eyes wide, he turned on me. " _No_."

"What can I do about it now?" I asked, ignoring the sound of my mother's voice demanding my attention through the receiver. "Send her away?"

He nodded vigorously. "Yes. Exactly. Do that."

" _No_." I echoed his early sentiment, shaking my head at him.

"She can't stay here."

I unmuted the call and put the cell pack to my ear. "Just a second, mum. I'm working something out for you." Before she could answer, I'd muted it again. "Sherlock, this is ridiculous. What would you do if it were your mum?"

" _My_ mum wouldn't show up without a phone call." He snapped.

"She did call." I said. "And I can't send her to a hotel. My parents are divorcing. She won't go back home. Until she finds a flat of her own, and that won't take more than a few days." I cut him off just as his eyes bugged and he opened his mouth to protest. "Breathe, Sherlock. You're pink in the face."

Sherlock realized he was holding his breath and let it out in a puff. He breathed in and let it out again a few times before he spoke again. "Three days." He said. "That's it. You promise."

"Three days."

" _Three days_." Sherlock repeated, stabbing a finger in my direction.

"Alright, grumpy, I said I promised." I rolled my eyes and unmuted the call. "Mum, you can come up."

"Well," she said. "I'm so very glad that you aren't going to leave your mother standing out here in the elements. How generous of you." I heard her suitcase start rolling across the pavement as she muttered to herself. I closed my eyes, fighting annoyance. I was very glad that Sherlock couldn't hear what she was saying. It was an invitation for some snarky comment that I couldn't handle at present.

"Generous." I murmured, almost inaudibly. "Right."

I waited until I heard her trudging up the stairs to start for the door. I had needed the few extra seconds to mentally prepare myself for the onslaught ahead. If she didn't start cleaning straight out of the gate, she'd at least start digging through the cupboards or washing dishes. My mum was insufferable when she was avoiding something. The something in this case was clearly my father.

I opened the door and plastered a smile on my face just as she cleared the stairs and dropped her suitcase at her feet. "Hi, Mum." I greeted her as cheerily as possible. "Can I –" she handed me her suitcase and pushed past me and into the flat, "take this for you?" I finished in a whisper. Bracing myself, I closed the door and set down her suitcase.

"How was your trip?" I asked, noticing that Sherlock had fled to his bedroom. My mum sat down on the sofa with an exaggerated sigh and shrugged off her coat.

"Awful." She said. "Your father suggested it. I never should have let him talk me into it."

"I'm sure he was trying to help."

"Yes. Always trying to help." She muttered. Her coat ended up in a wad over the arm of the sofa. It was then that she took at look around the flat. "What is all of this?" She gestured to the living room, at Sherlock's papers and his violin. "It's a mess, Katherine, absolutely disgraceful."

I scowled.

"Wipe that look off your face, you'll give yourself lines."

I wiped the look off my face and gritted my teeth instead. "It's fine, mother." I said calmly. "Everything is clean. Organized. _Just_ where it should be. So, don't get any ideas. We like it this way."

My mum frowned skeptically. "It's dusty."

"We like dust. Dust gives character to the furniture."

She swiped her fingers over Sherlock's side of the coffee table and they came up thick with character. Her eyebrows knitted together, her lips pursed. I wouldn't show it, but I was just as displeased as she was. Right now, in front of my mum, it was all about solidarity – the virtue she preached so proudly at home. I had to have Sherlock's back, there was no other way to go about it. As long as she was here, I would be the picture of health and happiness. It was what would keep her from worrying – it would make _her_ happy.

"You keep saying 'we'." My mum noted. "Where is your other half?"

I blinked. "Alright, well, never put it like _that_ again." I said. "And I don't know. Out, probably. Somewhere." _Somewhere that isn't here_ , I added silently.

"Wasn't he here?" She asked. "A moment ago, someone looked out the window while I was begging you to bring me in out of the cold."

I tried not to roll my eyes. What could I say to that? Sherlock was here, he did look out the window, but he's deathly afraid of anyone with a shred of maternal instinct and was probably hidden away in his room? Of course not, because it was all about solidarity. If he'd decided to hide, I had to go with it.

The bastard.

"Did they?" I asked, turning to pick up her suitcase again. "I didn't notice. Let me drag this to my room for you, and I'll be right back." I hurried off before my mum could comment and nearly tripped over the volume of her belongings on my way to the hall. She'd packed for France like she had no intention of ever coming back to London. I pretended not to notice that, filed it away under the Things Never Ever to Mention to Dad, and walked it dutifully to my bedroom door.

After sitting the thing down, I sighed and leaned up against the door, eyes closed. I had maybe a minute before she started calling for me. Two before she ventured into the hallway to retrieve me herself. I took a deep breath and was just about to stand up when my door opened from the inside and I tumbled over the threshold and onto someone's shoes with a yelp.

"Katherine?" My mum called. "Are you alright?"

I looked up from the shoes to find Sherlock attached to them. He reached over me and grabbed her suitcase, bringing it inside with a flick of his wrist. He was much stronger than he looked. I gaped at him for another second before he gestured impatiently toward the door. _Answer_ , he was telling me.

"Fine! I just tripped. I'll be out in a minute." I said, but Sherlock held up two fingers. "Two minutes!" I corrected myself and he shut the door.

I glared up at him from where I lay in a heap on the floor. "What in the world do you think you're doing?"

"I knew you were more likely to come here than go looking for me." He said, eyeing me for what I imagined could have wound up being gaping wounds. As it was, I would have maybe two bruises and sore wrists from trying to catch myself as I fell. "Are you hurt?"

" _Brilliant_ deduction, Holmes." I hissed. "What has gotten into you? This is ridiculous. It's my _Mum_. You can't hide in here forever."

He hummed. "Might just, actually."

I bit my tongue to restrain myself from shouting at him. "Al _right_." I forced the word out, making a point of looking anywhere but at Sherlock. If I had, I would have strangled him. "You gave me the okay to bring her in out of the cold. Now you won't even go and greet her. What would you have me do?"

"Your nostrils flare when you're in a temper. It's your tell." Sherlock said. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Once or twice." I replied, repeating his own words. This caught him off guard so much that he froze. For a second or two, I thought he might even smile. The emotion faded and his face once again seemed as though it were carved from stone.

I felt disappointment dance along the lines of my ribs before I pushed it away. I wondered why he felt the need to hide his good humor from me. He kept himself at arm's length – never quite my friend, never quite someone I could ever truly dislike. It was obvious, as little as I knew him, that I held him in a higher regard than he was willing to hold me.

A friend. I needed one of those. It was wonderful that I'd found Molly. And Dana, I imagined, would always be a fixture in my life. But was it asking too much of fortune that I also be friends with my flatmate? It was selfish to have so many good things going and wish for one more. I knew that. And yet, every time Sherlock _almost_ laughed, I wished for it. Each time he woke me playing the violin before the sun rose, I would listen and wish.

And _yet_ …

"Getting back to the matter at hand, I didn't have time to rush the door, Katherine." He sighed. "This was the next alternative."

"Lurking in my bedroom." I said. "How very psycho-killer of you." In answer, Sherlock rolled his eyes and helped himself to a seat on my bed. I nodded, "Please _do_ sit down."

He looked down his nose at me, facial expression neutral. "I find myself wondering how your tongue doesn't cut you, as sharp as it is."

"And I wonder how you aren't carved from stone, as reserved as you are." I snapped back, glaring. "So full of judgment, so few words. It's unbelievable."

"About that." He said, ignoring everything else I'd said. "Words. You seem to attach a great deal of importance to those, so I thought you might be rather unforgiving if I had none for your mother."

I arched a brow at him and sat up straighter, looking at him from the floor. "And you suddenly care?"

"Attempting to." Sherlock stated. "Will you help me, or must I become a recluse and remain here while she takes over the flat?"

"Stop being so dramatic." Now I was the one rolling my eyes. "You just… I don't know, speak when spoken to."

"What wonderful advice." He said drily. "I wasn't aware we were in the eighteenth century."

"You're impossible." I said, standing. I grabbed a pillow from my bed and flopped down beside Sherlock, lying so that I stared at the ceiling. "I don't know what to tell you, really. Just don't look her directly in the eye."

He glanced down at me, curious.

"She turns men to stone with the bat of an eyelash." I explained, fighting back a laugh.

Sherlock scoffed and rose from where he sat, straightening his shirt. "Now who is being impossible."

I stopped resisting then and let loose a laugh I was sure my mother could hear. "You just wait until Christmas. Then you'll _really_ be in for an experience. This is just… the prelude. An initiation, if you will."

"Living with John was much less complicated." Sherlock let the words fall from his mouth without thinking, something that I considered to be very unlike him. And then I got my answer. He never let himself laugh because he was always on his guard against what we'd both lost. I was perhaps too much like my brother for Sherlock's own good – too much of a reminder. He could never really be himself around me, the way he was with John.

He blinked in surprise at himself, and I chewed my lip, as I always did when anxiety gripped my heart with its iron claws. Sherlock didn't move for a moment that seemed to last forever.

" _He_ was less complicated." I agreed finally. "I'm much more unforgiving than my brother."

Sherlock hesitated. "And much louder."

I laughed again, and he seemed to relax. I knew that, eventually, John's name wouldn't result in tongues of flame licking at the hole where my heart had been. My ribs wouldn't feel as if they were being wrenched apart. I would be able to breathe. And if Sherlock and I worked on it enough, my brother's absence would be the thing that brought us together instead of the thing we stayed quiet to avoid.

"Katherine?" My mother called, sounding closer than before. I sighed, imagining that she'd drifted closer to the hallway when she heard me laughing. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." I tried to respond without sounding put out. I stood up from the bed and brushed myself off. I looked at Sherlock, catching his eye with the barest hint of a smile. "Come on." I said. "I won't throw you to the wolves alone."

He sighed and walked to the door, sweeping past me and wrenching it open before he could change his mind. I followed him out into the hall, but it was Sherlock my mother spotted first. "Ah!" She exclaimed. "Katherine's elusive other half."

Sherlock threw a particularly nasty look over his shoulder, aimed at me, before I nudged him forward and into the living room.

 _Let the initiation begin_.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Okay, so I said I had finals and I DO, but this chapter came pouring out as soon as I got a really special review. THANK YOU ForeverSunshine13, your review made my entire month. I was so touched and thrilled by your sincere excitement for this story! As a writer, I feel like that is my greatest reward. It really warms my heart to know how much you're enjoying the changes I've made - I worried so much about it. I was very nervous about taking this project on again. And reviews like the one you left me make everything worth it. **_

_**So, this chapter is for you. Thank you again. You've made me a very happy writer.**_

 _ **-lightinside**_

* * *

 **09.**

I'd broken my promise. November washed away with the chilly rain that preceded the holidays and the three-day limitation placed on my mum's visit had been shamefully exceeded. My mum hadn't found her own place, or even started looking for one. She'd grown frighteningly comfortable in the home I shared with Sherlock. And he was becoming more of miser with each passing day.

"You have to do something." He muttered to me as he dug through the fridge. It was now well stocked with food and his experiments were nowhere to be found.

I snagged a bagel and popped it in the toaster before leaning against the counter to watch him. He was a man possessed, arms moving like a boat propeller. Several apples went rolling out onto the floor and he huffed. "What are you looking for?"

"Are you listening to me?" Sherlock hissed, slamming the fridge door. "She. Has. To. Go."

"Do you want the whole street to hear you?" I groused. "Lower your voice."

"The holidays are in two weeks, Katherine. She's been here for a month. I find this to be highly inappropriate and, most of all, _inconvenient_."

"Pour yourself some tea and put a sock in it." I grabbed my bagel and turned to the microwave to zap my lukewarm coffee before I excused myself for work.

This was my routine most mornings, as I usually couldn't deal with Sherlock unless I'd had food or a substantial amount of caffeine. Especially now that my mother had outstayed her welcome, I found myself rising earlier to drink yet _more_ coffee. I was up to nearly two pots per morning. I imagined that soon I would turn from coffee and embrace something a little stronger. I frowned to myself as I opened the microwave. I would be a part-time alcoholic before long.

I snapped out of my thoughts with a loud cry of surprise, dropping my breakfast on the now pristine floor.

"There they are." Sherlock sighed in relief and snatched the focus of my horror right out of the microwave. A jar of eyes. _Human_ eyes.

I put a hand to my throat and closed my eyes as he brushed past me and put the jar right next to the toaster. Suddenly I had no appetite. I picked up the bagel and tossed it in the bin, forgetting about my desire for coffee. I made a mental note never to use the microwave again.

"Right." I said. "I'm going to work."

"Useless." He murmured to himself, studying the jar. "Completely useless. I wasn't able to study the result for myself because _your mother_ took it upon herself to move my things."

Before I could respond, the front door opened. Sherlock shot a tired look my way as the rustle of bags reached our ears. My mother stumbled into the kitchen hauling at least twenty pounds of groceries. I leapt to help her as she greeted Sherlock and looked me over with a disapproving frown.

"What?" I asked finally as I wrested the groceries onto the counter.

"You're going to be late for work."

"I'm aware." I sighed. "What is all of this? We don't need so much food, Mum, we're just two people."

"Oh, this isn't for you, dear." She said, waving me off. She went digging through the heaviest bag and produced the most massive turkey I'd ever seen. "It's for the party."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. He fixed his burning eyes on me, torn between panicking and being furious. I made it a point not to look at him and took a deep breath that filled my lungs to the point of bursting. I needed the patience of Job to deal with whatever was coming next. I began calmly unloading groceries as my mother wrestled with the turkey.

"What party, Mum?" I asked.

"Well, I called everyone." She said, hunting for a knife to open the packaging with. "And you wouldn't believe how many people will be out of town for Christmas. So, I decided that it would be best if we had a little get-together a few weeks early." She smiled brightly at me, as if she had accomplished the most amazing feat in the world. "Molly Hooper is coming, Katherine, I know you like her. Mrs. Hudson called D.I. Lestrade in my behalf and he confirmed. Dana and Charlie. Let's see… who else? Oh! Your brother, Sherlock, I thought you might want him here."

" _Brother_?" I asked, turning to Sherlock. "You have a brother?"

Sherlock's jaw twitched. "Mycroft. Did he say _why_ he was coming?"

"How does my mum know about your brother and I don't?" I asked, cutting her off before she could speak.

"I don't quite know." Sherlock responded tightly, attempting to keep control of himself.

My mum shrugged. "Mrs. Hudson and I got to talking."

Sherlock opened his mouth as she turned her back. I reached out and grabbed his arm, shaking my head. Though he narrowed his eyes, he didn't move away from me, "Out." He mouthed, turning his gaze pointedly at my mother. " _Today_."

"After." I motioned to all the food. "Please."

In a soundless battle of wills, we stared at one another for a very long moment before he finally seemed to relax. But the fire in his eyes never went out. Sherlock grunted a begrudging sound of agreement and disappeared into the living room. I knew he wasn't happy – I wasn't either. But, the way I saw it – which was horrible, granted – was that if I kicked my mum out now, we would be left with food for nine people. Considering that I _never_ cooked, at least not in Sherlock's kitchen, it would be both ridiculous and wasteful if we didn't go through with this thing now.

"Your father is coming, too." My mum added, beginning to wash vegetables. The sound of the water nearly drowned her out, her voice was so quiet.

"Dad?" I started. "You called him?"

I got a very stern side-eye, the kind that would have had me shaking in my boots if I had been ten years younger. "We're adults, Katherine. I'm not avoiding him. Of course I called him."

I bit my tongue to stall the flurry of comments that threatened to come bursting out. Adults they may have been, but they were certainly avoiding each other. Otherwise, she would have gone straight home from the train station. And if she weren't in denial, she would have found her own place and vacated Baker Street. Instead of saying any of this, I held up my hands and took a step back.

"Alright, alright." I picked up my cold coffee and continued out of the kitchen. "I'm late for work. I'll see you both later."

"The party is at eight!" My mum called after me.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair scowling at the paper as I passed him. I hurried through the front door, escaping into the hallway and down the stairs before anyone could say another word.

* * *

"Mrs. Lincoln." I breezed through the exam room door, smiling as brightly as possible. No wonder people hated doctors. The elderly woman looked less than pleased to see me as she sat on the flimsy paper that covered the exam table. It shifted and crinkled with every breath she took. "What seems to be the problem today?"

As she detailed to me her symptoms, my phone began to buzz in my pocket. I paused, pen hovering above my notepad. Mrs. Lincoln stopped talking and frowned.

"Do you always bring your cell phone into consultations?" She inquired, scrutinizing me.

I forced another smile. "No. I had a whirlwind of a morning – I do apologize. You have my full attention."

She nodded and picked up where she'd left off. I dutifully began taking notes again, nodding and humming when necessary. A full sixty seconds into describing my treatment plan for her, my phone started buzzing again. I winced but kept talking. I made sure she understood everything and had no questions before I bade her goodbye and slipped out into the hall.

I pulled the cell out of my pocket and checked it.

 **MISSED CALL (2) SHERLOCK**

Just as I was about to pocket the phone again, it started ringing. With a growl, I answered it. "What? What do you need? I was in a consultation, can you even fathom how unprofessional this is?"

"Your mother insists that I wear a tie. I never wear ties. I despise them."

I walked quickly to my office and shut the door, lest I start shouting. "You called me _three times_ to complain about a tie."

"This is important, Katherine. Do I have to wear that insipid thing around my neck; yes or no?"

" _Yes_." I said. Really, I hated the thought of Sherlock in a tie. He wouldn't look like himself in one. But at this point, this was payback. I couldn't pass up the opportunity. "In fact, while I'm not there, you have to do whatever she says. I'm not the middleman, you can't call me like this when I'm at work. What have I said about this? What classifies as an emergency?"

"Never to call unless I'm bleeding, unconscious, or dying." Sherlock repeated quickly. I could almost hear him rolling his eyes. "Which is absurd – I couldn't call if I were unconscious. And if I were dying, there would be no point."

"So, are you bleeding?"

"If I were, Katherine, I would be in the waiting room of your clinic." He said. "In fact, I find myself wishing that I were. Your mother is insufferable."

"The pot calling the kettle black." I muttered. "Imagine that."

"Stop mumbling."

" _Fine_." I replied tiredly. "I have one patient left and then I'll be on my way back. Do you think you can manage until then?"

"No." Sherlock said. That was it, short and simple. I found myself waiting for what I imagined would be the rest of his response, but it never came. The realization was almost too much for me.

"Oh, my God." I groaned exaggeratedly. "Goodbye."

Before he could say anything, I ended the call and flopped in my desk chair, feeling a headache blossoming behind my eyes. I rubbed my temples quietly as I prepared to go out and deal with one last patient before returning home to the Christmas dinner war-zone. Could I just say I got held up at the office? That someone else walked in and needed emergency attention and I couldn't make it to dinner. I thought about it seriously, daydreaming about putting my feet up and eating the leftover pie Sarah Sawyer had in the employee fridge. I could have the pie and watch _The Gilmore Girls_ on my office computer. And then I could go home and make a show of looking extremely haggard and stumble to bed before Sherlock could sink his claws into me.

But if I did any of that, I could consider myself homeless by sunrise tomorrow. He would be left to deal with my mother and her guests alone and that would earn me a one-way ticket out on my ass. I sighed. I could still eat the pie. But then I had to hurry home to change and prepare to chat my way through dinner. I shuddered at the thought of it. If my mum was pushing Sherlock to wear a tie, that meant that this little soiree she'd put together would be as formal as she could manage to make it. I would have to wear a dress. She wouldn't stand for anything less.

Sherlock wanted her out. And after this night was over, I imagined that I would have to talk to her, _gently_ , about either going home or finding someone else to stay with. There was so much ahead to deal with and I didn't feel like facing any of it. Not alone, at least.

I chewed my lip thoughtfully before, in a strange turn of events, I dialed Sherlock's number. He answered after one ring. "And you say that I am the one without manners."

"Don't make me regret this." I said. "I called to tell you that I'm bringing pie. Be on the stoop in twenty minutes."

He sounded befuddled when next he spoke. " _Pie_?"

"Yes, _pie_. We will have fifteen minutes of perfect peace and quiet to enjoy said pie before we surrender ourselves over to my mother. Got it?"

"Pie." He said. "Understood."

"And, Sherlock? Don't wear a tie."

This time, I hung up with a smile. I jogged out into the hall, passed off my patient to whomever Sarah saw fit, and sneaked down to the fridge to smuggle out the pie while she was busy. I fished out two plastic forks from a drawer and slipped them in my pocket. I didn't condone stealing specifically labeled food from my co-workers, but this was… an emergency. It fit none of the criteria I held Sherlock to, but we _needed_ this. While Sarah had her back turned, I grabbed my coat and bag and slipped out to catch a cab.

As promised, I pulled up outside Baker Street twenty minutes after ending my call with Sherlock. And there he stood, bundled up to his chin in a coat and scarf, waiting for me. I gathered my things, made sure I would be warm, and exited the cab with the promised pie. I walked past him and sat down on the top step, trying not to shiver as I met the cold concrete. He never said a word, only sat down beside me.

Knowing we were out of sight should my mother peek through the upstairs curtain, I opened the pie container and handed one of the plastic forks to Sherlock. I took a considerable bite and chewed quietly, looking out at the street ahead. He gazed at me curiously for a moment before following my lead.

A strange comradery was building between us as we sat there, frozen to the bone, happily drinking in the quiet. And while Sherlock might not admit it, I could say confidently that there was no one in that moment that I would rather be freezing next to. It was a strange truth, but I accepted it nonetheless.

And though we finished eating long before it was time to go in, we sat in the December cold for fifteen blissful minutes without words, comfortable only in our silence.


	10. Chapter 10

_**I'm back! I made it through finals, it's actually a miracle. I know it has actually been forever since I updated last, but I decided to create a scene that I sort of alluded to in the last version of the story. So, I had to recover and then do a lot of thinking to try and make it just right. And during that time, I resumed work on a playlist for these two. **_

_**If you read Shattered before, you know that I would occasionally put up little 'mini-lists' at the beginning of a chapter. I decided to make a mix of songs that first inspired this story with some of the new that I listen to now. I'll keep adding as I go, or maybe trim it down - it all depends. But I would love if you would send me songs that remind you of Sherlock and Katherine! That would be such a treat for me. **_

_**I'm on spotify under lightinside17 and the playlist for this story is under 'the mini-lists' if you guys want to take a peek and give it a listen! **_

_**I hope you guys are all well! And also, ForeverSunshine13, I hope you survived your finals! Thank you so much for wishing me luck with mine. I hope to hear from everyone in the reviews!**_

 _ **-lightinside**_

* * *

 **10.**

Eventually, having gathered enough courage, Sherlock and I ventured back inside to face the chaos that was bound to ensue. My mother worked tirelessly in the kitchen, shuttling up and down the stairs from Mrs. Hudson's residence so often that it was a wonder her head didn't spin completely off her shoulders. Sherlock disappeared to his room the second we'd walked in and I was left to straighten and dust for the guests.

While Sherlock and I were fond of "character," my mother said drily, there were some people who might be allergic to it. With a near-silent huff, I dutifully wiped down every surface that wasn't within what my mother had deemed her workspace. Each time I would drift a little too near, she would shoo me away, cheeks covered in flour with her apron about her neck.

"I'm making Magic." She said, smiling a little. It was the first time I'd seen her so _herself_ since the funeral. "Go get busy."

Magic was what my father called her apple pie. It had been his favorite of her confectionary creations since I was a girl. I knew the only reason she was rushing to make it was because he'd promised to come to dinner. I very nearly had the decency to feel guilty for having already eaten pie once that day, but knew that when the time came, I would eat more because it would make my mother smile. And she hadn't smiled in so long.

I smiled back as best I could despite the sudden opening of the ever-present hole in my chest. I tried to breathe, tried not to think of my brother. "Alright." I said. "What's next on my list, Mum?"

"Go get yourself ready." She said. "I've got everything else under control." I watched her eyebrows lift as I opened my mouth to protest. "And don't you argue with me, Katherine Watson. I'm perfectly fine."

I lifted my hands in surrender. "Okay, I'm going."

Getting myself ready was certainly a commitment of epic proportions. My mum knew that, as did Sherlock. Especially tonight, I knew I needed to look my best. I wanted to support my parents for their first meeting since Mum returned from Paris. I wondered if she'd invited Sylvia for the evening, but surely she would have mentioned it beforehand. I retreated quickly and quietly to my room, shutting the door on the sound of my mother making Magic. This was an occasion which I had tried very hard not to think about in detail. I would dress appropriately, eat very little, smile and nod, and fall in to my bed at the end of the night. But as I dug patiently through the large volume of clothes contained in my closet, I felt a clammy sweat break out on the back of my neck.

I would be meeting Sherlock's brother. He would be meeting my father. I chewed my lip as I pulled down a few options and slung them across my bed. How would this go? Sherlock didn't seem thrilled that Mycroft was attending this little soiree. Did that mean he would be in a foul mood the entire evening? I tried not to think of that as I studied the dresses I'd chosen – all of them old and worn probably once each. I sighed and snatched the one I liked best off the bed. It was blue, surely no one could complain about that even though it was meant to be a pre-Christmas dinner.

I began shrugging off my jeans to be sure that it _fit_ , at least, just as the door burst open. In peeked Sherlock as I tripped in surprise, pulling the dress with me to keep myself decent. I landed smartly on my ass and winced, imagining that I had broken my tailbone. Words failed me as I stared him down, furious with pain.

"This is the second time since my mother arrived that you've managed to startle me straight into the floor." I snapped, scowling with all my might.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are you decent?"

"It was my understanding, _detective_ , that you were supposed to ask that question _before_ you entered someone's room." I quipped drily. I never made a move to rise from the floor, knowing that my jeans were around my ankles. I hoped that Sherlock wouldn't notice, but the second I saw his mouth quirk up at the corners, I knew he had. "Wipe that look off your face, Holmes, and get out so that I can get dressed." I reached for a blanket to try and hurl at him, but the door shut before I could manage it.

Five minutes later, apparently thinking he'd allowed me adequate time to get dressed, Sherlock knocked on my door. I ignored it for a moment, adjusting my hair around the bodice of my dress as I twirled to make sure the skirt wasn't bunched up around my waist in the back. Stranger things had happened. I'd once walked out of the loo on a date with toilet paper stuck to my jeans. The guy I'd been with had been either too oblivious or too malicious to let me know and so I'd walked around London for forty minutes waving a white flag from my bum. I promptly lost his number.

The skirts rustled against the floor as I moved toward the mirror to study my face. As I coated my lips with gloss, Sherlock knocked again. I smirked into the mirror. "Come in, Sherlock."

He bustled in, closing the door behind him with a swift backward kick of his leg, and plopped on my bed without once looking in my direction. Sherlock laid an arm directly over his eyes and sighed theatrically, something that was not out of the ordinary.

"Pull yourself together." I laughed softly, looking at his reflection behind me even as I finished my makeup. "It won't be too terrible. If you don't quite feel up to making conversation, you can just stuff your face instead."

"Funny." He monotoned.

"As I am _always_." I replied easily. "You just don't usually appreciate it." I turned to face him and the sound of my dress whispering against my feet as I moved must have caught his attention. He peeked at me from underneath his arm. I pretended not to notice when his eyes went wide. "Sit up." I told him, hiding the blush that threatened to creep down my neck. "You'll wrinkle your suit before anyone ever sees you in it."

He ignored my comment but sat up. "Have you always had that dress?"

I looked down at it, frowning immediately. "For a while, yes. I didn't have time to shop on short notice. Is it bad? Is there a hole or something? Is it too formal?" I caught sight of the exasperated expression on his face and pressed my lips firmly together to keep more questions from spilling out of them.

"It's nice." He said finally. "You look very nice."

I blinked. A compliment? Did he just compliment me? It was all I could do not to gape like a fish as I stared at him, processing what he'd just said. "Thank you." I managed finally. I felt my ears start to burn as he continued to look at me. Heart hammering, I turned back to the mirror and pretended to fuss over my hair again.

Sherlock seemed to take the hint and stood, rubbing the back of his neck before loping to my door. He left without a word. As soon as the door shut, I sat on my bed and put a hand to my heart. For some reason, I felt out of breath. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to catch it. Heavens, if Sherlock complimented me _twice_ , I'd have to be sent straight to the hospital.

I gathered myself as best as I could, checked myself once more, and strode out into the hall. The party was already beginning. The smell of baking apple pie wafted through the flat as my mother answered the first knock on the door, inviting Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper inside. I couldn't contain my relief. At least Mycroft hadn't arrived yet. Sherlock stood off to the side and through the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him throw back a finger of whiskey.

I embraced Molly in a hug, genuinely excited to see her. We spoke animatedly, catching up while Mrs. Hudson helped my mother finish setting the table in preparation for everyone else to arrive.

The chatter increased in volume as Lestrade breezed in, politely carrying with him a very decent bottle of wine. Behind him came Dana and Charlie, who I greeted with a grin so wide that Charlie began teasing me, saying that I would split my face in two. He was too tall now for me to ruffle his hair and so I rolled my eyes instead. He really was just like Dana. As I waited for Sherlock's brother to make an appearance, and my father, Dana pulled me off the side. She nursed an impressive glass of wine while discreetly making eyes in Lestrade's direction.

"Stop that." I said, sighing. "He's more than ten years your senior."

"And very nice-looking. Good taste in wine." She murmured, still looking at him from underneath her lashes. Lestrade was blissfully unaware of her predatory stare, deep in conversation with Charlie. I'd known for a while that Charlie wanted to join the police force. I supposed he was taking his opportunity to create a connection.

"I'll vomit if you keep this up." I promised her and gently took the wine from her hand so that I could take a large sip for myself. "Just because you decided to stay in town does _not_ mean you have to bed the D.I. in my flat."

"Please." Dana scoffed lightly. "I haven't yet stooped so low."

"Now isn't the time to start." I reminded her. "And I'm keeping your wine. You certainly don't need it."

"That's rude, Katherine." She said, but there was no bite to her tone. Her attention was still fully _not_ on me. I muttered something about checking on the food and excused myself, downing her wine on the way to the kitchen. I plopped the empty glass in the sink and took a moment to breathe, wondering how Sherlock was faring. I dared a glance out into the living room and saw him at Molly Hooper's mercy. Though he looked a little empty behind the eyes, he wasn't ignoring her. And he wasn't uncomfortable. That was some small victory, I supposed.

I smiled absently to myself just as another knock came at the door. I walked to open it, not waiting around for someone to hear it. "Got it!" I called, though I was sure no one was paying attention. Only Sherlock. His eyes were fixed upon the door and the person who materialized beyond. I could barely say hello or offer to take the man's coat before Sherlock was beside me, nudging me out of the way.

"Mycroft." He said by way of greeting. He never moved or invited his brother inside, only looked at him. I tried not to stare, but who could help it? Mycroft Holmes cut a formidable figure in a tailored suit, eyes blazing with keen intelligence, lean fingers grasping an umbrella that rested lightly on the floor next to his feet. I saw immediately that he made it a habit to look down his nose at people, Sherlock included. His mouth twisted into what might have been a smile, had it not been frighteningly cold.

"Brother mine." He said. "Will you keep me out on the stoop all evening or shall I come in?"

"The stoop is that way." Sherlock said tightly. "Feel free to haunt it, if you must."

 _Oh, dear_. I stepped in then, picking up the skirt of my dress so that I didn't trip over it as I budged Sherlock over. "I'm Katherine." I said brightly, introducing myself though intimidation danced along my spine. I could hardly stand to look Mycroft in the eye. It was almost as though I were prey in the claws of a great cat. I forced myself not to shudder. "May I take your coat? Dinner should be ready in a few minutes, please come in and make yourself at home."

Mycroft said nothing, only sneered. He looked past me and met Sherlock's withering gaze. "How domestic."

I thought Sherlock would slug him right there on the doorstep. Mycroft, with two words, had made me feel impossibly small. This time, I couldn't fight the blush of embarrassment that colored my cheeks and burned its way down my neck. I didn't open my mouth again, for fear of stammering, and meekly stepped aside to let Mycroft swagger into the flat. Sherlock's jaw twitched, fury coloring his eyes as he stood rigidly and watched his brother pass by without another word.

I let out a shaky breath and fought the urge to reach out for Sherlock, to try and calm him in some way. He looked as though he might leap across the room and gut Mycroft with glee if goaded just a bit more. I decided it was best to let him work through it on his own. We were barely friends. I had to remind myself of that. His issues with Mycroft were _his_ business. Not mine.

No one had noticed the exchange, as they were busy filling their plates with hot food. I wished that I could, but I was still waiting for one more person. I left the door open this time and hovered near it as I picked at a dinner roll – the closest thing to dinner I would allow myself until everyone had arrived.

Sherlock was never too far from me, which I noticed but did not comment on. If I moved six paces toward the kitchen to speak to Dana, he would move three and strike up tentative conversation just behind me. If I walked to the kitchen, he was leaning on the wall just outside of it pretending to sip wine even though I knew he never drank it. I had the thought that it might have been unconscious, but then I saw the way he stared at his brother. He was setting a boundary. He was keeping Mycroft away from me. I was so grateful that I felt weak.

It was then that I noticed my father. I rushed for him with open arms, smiling brightly as I noticed he held flowers in his hand. White roses. He chuckled warmly as we embraced, holding the flowers so that the thorns avoided pricking my back. When I pulled away, he held them out for me.

"Flowers for my flower." He said, winking at me.

"Dad." I laughed. "They're beautiful, thank you."

"I passed the shop on the way and couldn't resist. I realized how long it had been since I last brought you flowers. Your graduation. It's rather inexcusable of me."

I sighed, beaming at the roses in my hand. "It's been a while since anyone brought me flowers. Thank you." I said again. I looked around, searching the mass of bodies for Sherlock and found him watching us quietly a few feet away. I motioned to him and turned back to my father. Surprisingly, Sherlock appeared at my elbow a few seconds later.

"Dad, this is –"

My father stuck out a hand. "Sherlock Holmes, I presume. I've heard much about you, son. It's good to finally meet you."

Sherlock took his hand and shook it firmly. "And you, sir."

I thought I might faint from shock.

"I know you must be a good chap, or my Katherine wouldn't stay here." He said with an undertone of warning that only a father can truly pull off. I scowled at him lightly, worried he would provoke an acerbic reply from my flatmate.

Sherlock hummed. "Katherine is very patient."

I smiled. "Well, I do try. And he _is_." I added pointedly to my father. "Very good. Don't try to scare him."

"Just doing my job." My father replied with a grin. And then the grin vanished. I turned around to see what had robbed him of his good cheer and found my mother standing behind us, wringing a dish towel in her hands. She still wore her apron, having just retrieved the pie from the oven to cool.

"James." She said. Her voice was barely a whisper. She cleared her throat and seemed to force herself to try again. "It's good to see you."

And though there was conversation all around, I suddenly couldn't hear anything that didn't involve my parents. Sherlock seemed to notice the way I stilled. His eyes locked on me and stayed there as if he worried I might lose consciousness.

"Caroline." My father dipped his head in acknowledgement. He tried to smile, but it turned into more of a grimace until he finally gave up. "You look well."

"Can we talk?"

All the light left his eyes. "I think we need to."

My ears perked up and I found myself holding my breath. This didn't sound like the divorce, or the possibility of one. It sounded worse somehow. Much worse. Without a word, my mum stepped in front of me and led the way out of the flat and down the stairs. She didn't try to take his hand, didn't even look him in the eye. My father slouched after her, hands in his pockets. Something was wrong.

I saw all of this. And Sherlock did, too. Even Dana, who had been chatting with Mrs. Hudson, was eyeing me worriedly as I crept to the door and cracked it behind me. I could hear the low sounds of conversation carried up through the stairwell. From the sound of it, I had already missed a lot. I would feel guilty later, I decided. It was punishment enough, whatever I might hear.

"Caroline, please. I don't want to know what happened or how it happened or _why_. I think I know why. But realize that when I try to understand, when I attempt to even imagine it… I'm ill, Caroline. I'm absolutely ill over it all."

My mother was in tears. I could hear them plainly, even at the top of the stairs. "I'm so sorry, James. So deeply sorry. I don't have any – I can't – there _isn't_ an excuse. I won't insult you by trying to come up with one."

"Having Sylvia give him the number to the house – _our_ number, Caroline."

"I know." She sobbed. "I'm sorry, so sorry."

"Would you even have told me?" He asked. "Is this why you've been hiding out here, why you haven't come home?"

"I'm so ashamed."

"Thirty-five years of marriage. Everything I've done was for us, for our children. You're a good woman. I don't deserve you. That's what I tell everyone – my Caroline is a good woman. They don't know you like I do – am I wrong?"

"No." My mother's voice was strangled, as if she couldn't breathe. Neither could I. "No, James. No."

"Then please," my father's voice cracked. " _Please_ , darling, don't make a fool out of me."

I couldn't listen to any more of it. I slipped back inside the flat as inconspicuously as I could manage. My dress was too tight, the room was too small. I couldn't breathe. Their words echoed in my head and I realized that as deep as they cut, neither of my parents had ever raised their voices to each other. My father wasn't angry – he was broken. They both were. Dana made a beeline for me as soon as I showed my face back in the living area, but I waved her off and rushed quietly down the hall. I thought I might be sick, but the shock ebbed, and the anger didn't come. I wasn't surprised by my mother's infidelity, and I didn't know why.

I took a deep breath. And another.

Another side-effect, I thought. John was gone and everyone in my little world was losing their minds. I had to force a breath in that time. An hour later, the party had dispersed and the last of our guests had trickled down the stairs and into the street to call taxis. Dana lingered just long enough to insist that I call her the next morning. I nodded even though I knew I wouldn't. Charlie hugged me a little bit longer than necessary, a sign that he'd sensed something was wrong, too. And then they were gone with everyone else.

Sherlock watched me from his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Don't." He said suddenly.

I paused in the middle of picking up plates left around the flat. I already had several in my hand and looked at them tiredly before I addressed him. "Clean up?" I asked.

"Yes. You're quiet."

"And that's a problem?"

"It's alarming."

"Sherlock." I said, hauling the plates to the kitchen. I began washing them as he walked in behind me, carrying a few stray wine glasses.

"Did your mother finally leave us?" He asked, always a little too blunt.

"I don't know."

He opened his mouth to ask me another question I didn't have the answer for but seemed to stop himself. When it seemed he would try again, I decided to flip the conversation so that he was the star instead of me.

"Tell me about that little display with your brother." I said, refusing to explain my mood. I couldn't bring myself to say the words out loud. Not yet. "That was interesting."

Sherlock had no retort for that. Wordlessly, he put the glasses on the counter within my reach to be washed. And when I looked up, he was gone. I sighed and cut the water off, watching my hands drip into the sink for a moment before I dried them off.

To my left sat my mother's creation – her Magic. It was half-eaten, enjoyed, but not by my father. I suspected he didn't know she'd made it for him. He never even made it into the kitchen. I refused to look at the pie until I'd made sure my flowers were situated nicely in a vase. Then, I covered it and picked it up and placed it gently in the fridge.

I abandoned the dishes and left the kitchen in darkness after I flicked the light off on my way to bed. Sherlock was sitting again, this time with his violin as he readied it to play. I muttered a 'good-night' and fled to my room where I shoved my dress back into the closet and crawled into bed in my warmest pajamas.

I forced my eyes closed, though I didn't sleep. The dull ache in my chest throbbed, but never blazed as it almost always did. I felt inexplicably alone, even with Sherlock right down the hall.

As if he could sense this, Sherlock began to play. And the melancholy music that drifted through the flat, the kind that made me think he could see straight into my soul, kept me company all through the night.


End file.
